THE  POET'S  PACK 


ALVMNVS  BOOK  FYND 


>ve 


The  Bookfellow  Series 
Volume  Three 


THE  POET'S  PACK 


Other  Titles  in  this  Series: 

I.  IN  PRAISE  OF  STEVENSON,  a  poetic  Anthology 
edited,  with  an  introduction  and  notes,  by 
Vincent  Starrett. 

II.  ADVENTURES  WITH  BOOKS  AND  AUTOGRAPHS, 
by  George  Steele  Seymour. 


THE  POET'S  PACK 


JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT,  Editor-in-Chief 
LILY  A.  LONG,  CLINTON  SCOLLARD,  FANNY  HODGES  NEWMAN, 


Associate  Editors 


CHICAGO 
THE  BOOKFELLOWS 

1921 


Five  hundred  copies  of  this  first  edition  have  been  printed  from  type 
in  1921,  for  THE  BOOKFELLOWS. 


Copyright  1921 
by  Flora  Warren  Seymour 


THE  TORCH    PRESS 

CEDAR    RAPIDS 

IOWA 


NOTE 

In  the  fall  of  1920,  Bookfellows  were  invited  to  submit  poems  for  a 
volume  designed  to  represent  the  best  work  of  members  of  the  Order. 
No  limit  was  set  to  the  number  that  each  might  submit,  nor  was  pub 
lished  work  excluded,  though  it  was  announced  that  preference  would  be 
given  to  unpublished  work.  About  one  thousand  poems  were  submitted. 
These  were  given  a  preliminary  reading  by  a  committee  of  selection 
consisting  of  Lily  A.  Long  of  St.  Paul,  Fanny  Hodges  Newman  of 
San  Diego  and  Clinton  Scollard  of  New  York,  two  affirmative  votes 
qualifying  a  poem  for  final  consideration. 

About  three  hundred  reached  the  editor-in-chief,  who  made  further 
eliminations  and  called  for  additional  contributions  from  a  number  of 
the  surviving  contributors,  with  the  result  that  a  volume  of  one  hundred 
poems  by  forty-five  poets  was  made.  The  material  submitted  ranged 
in  form  from  free  verse  to  the  sonnet,  from  the  quatrain  to  the  ballade, 
and  from  the  Sapphic  stanza  to  the  gazel. 

While  a  number  of  poets  are  represented  whose  names  are  familiar 
to  all  readers  of  modern  poetry,  it  should  be  a  source  of  special  satis 
faction  to  Bookfellows  that  this  enterprise  has  been  the  means  of  bring 
ing  out  a  number  of  worthy  writers  whose  work  now  appears  in  a  book 
for  the  first  time.  Of  these,  at  least  half  a  dozen  are  quite  likely  to 
achieve  distinction. 

— JOHN  G.  NEIHARDT 


Die 


go*  A, 


a* 


,  *S+l     To  c+Tf*» 


By 


TABLE  OP  CONTENTS 

AVERY,  BERTHA  GRANT 

Pierrot,  Bookfellow     .       .       .      ...      i  ' ••  *''    '.        15 

BALLOU,  ROBERT  0. 

Died  of  Disease *        16 

BANNING,  KENDALL 

Behind  the  Arras .17 

Heirlooms .18 

BLANDEN,  CHARLES  G. 

Forsooth  I  am  a  Gypsy  .  .  .  V  »  .  .  19 
The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  .  .  $  V  V  .  20 
Hereafter »  •';•  V  21 

BOYD,  MARION  M. 

Today        . •'.'.<     .      .        22 

BROWN,  JOHN  S. 

Evolution  of  a  Genius ~ .    v .        23 

Hagiology ( .        26 

BUTLER,  GEORGE  F. 

Nature's  Sanctuary      .       .       .      .      .      .      .      ;        28 

CHALMERS,  STEPHEN 

Home .        29 

CHENEY,  JOHN  VANCE 

The  Weeds  .  »  ,  .  ,  ,  *  *;  ,  ^  31 
Wind  .  .  \  .  »  *  »  .  l  .  i  -'^,  32 

COOKE,  EDMUND  VANCE 

Remembering  »  .;  >  »  *  •  •  v  -i  :  33 
Born  Without  a  Chance  .  *  i^  35 


DILLER,  HENRY  CORNEAU 

Making  a   Sonnet       .      .      .  v 37 

DIXON,  WENDELL  ERIC 

Sultan  Mahmud  III  to  His  Love      ....        38 

DUMONT,  HENRY 

Exiled 39 

George  Chavez 40 

EARLE,  BETTY 

The   Hush 41 

EATON,  CHARLOTTE 

Paraclete 42 

Chopin 43 

War 44 

Kegret 45 

EDSON,  CHARLES  FARWELL 

Love  in  Spring 46 

ERICSON,  ETHEL  M. 

Destiny 47 

Chrysanthemum  Child 48 

FIELD,  WALTER  TAYLOR 

January 49 

FIELDING-REID,  FRANCIS 

Sonnet 50 

FRANK,  FLORENCE  KIPER 

Sleep,  The  Mother 51 

October 53 

Elf-Child 54 

GARNETT,  LOUISE  AYRES 

Ivory  Thumbs 55 

The  Captive .        57 

GESSLER,  CLIFFORD  FRANKLIN 

The  Songless  City 58 

Free  Russia  *      .        59 


HAMMOND,  ELEANOR 

Dust  to  Dust  .      .      .      .      '.      v      .  "."    ;     -V  60 

Interloper        .•      .      .      .      .     '.      .      .      .      .  61 

Patchwork       .      .      .      .      .     ,'i  "'••.'      .      V      .'  '  62 

Hymn  for  a  Spring  Night      .       .       .       .      .      •   ;  63 

Defeat .    T    .  '    .;'  64 

HANSON,  JOSEPH  MILLS 

Panama .    '  .  65 

Laramie   Trail 67 

HASELTINE,  BURTON 

How  Long  Ago! 70 

Non  Repetetur 71 

HENNESSEY,  LE  ROY 

Little  House >      .      .  72 

HEYWARD,  JANIE  SCREVEN 

The  Spirit's  Grace :  *    .. .  74 

His   Creed ,    ,.      .  75 

Daffodils 76 

HUDSON,  HOYT  HOPEWELL 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson      .......  77 

At  a  Memorial  Service 78 

The  Departure  of  the  Birds      .       .       .       ...  79 

HUTCHISON,  HAZEL  COLLISTER 

Palingenesis >      »      .  80 

Design ,      .      *  81 

We  Who  May  Never  Be     .      .      .      .      .      .      »'  82 

KENNEDY,  THOMAS 

May  Sunday '.'    V     ^-'  83 

Late  Guest .V     ;  85 

LONG,  LILY  A. 

The  Diver     "  ;      .      .      .      .      .      ;•*.-',.  86 

The  Singing  Place      .      .  87 


MARKHAM,  LUCIA  CLARK 

The  Eternal    .      .      ,      .      .      ,      ...........  89 

Midnight 90 

The  Roses  of  Pieria 91 

Bluebells 92 

MILLER,  J.  C ORSON 

Epicedium 93 

NEWMAN,  FANNY  HODGES 

Elementals 95 

The  Tavern  Guest 96 

NOE,  COTTON 

The  Redbird 97 

To  the  Mocking  Bird 98 

The  Golden  Fleece 99 

Pro  Patria 100 

That's  What  They  Say 102 

Inconsistent 103 

RIHANI,  AMEEN 

To  the  Sonnet 104 

The  Song  of  Siva 105 

Andalusia 106 

ROE,  ROBERT  J. 

Lassitude 109 

Immortality 110 

SCHRANK,  JOSEPH 

The  Vanity  Box Ill 

SMERTENKO,  JOHAN  J. 

Hunter's  Monotone 112 

SMITH,  LAURA  BELL 

Kinnikinnick 113 

"ForsanEtHaec" 114 

STARRETT,  VINCENT 

Falstaff      .      .      .      ...      * :  .  -V  c>:.    *      .  115 

Pickwick                        .  116 


Ambition .      . 

To  a  Baby      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  118 

Captive  Goddesses       .      .      .      ,      .      .      .      .  119 

Return       *      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      ,      .      .  120 

Dreamer    .      .      .      ,      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  121 

STERLING,  GEORGE 

Poe's  Gravestone 122 

Sonnets  By  The  Night-Sea ' .  123 

Atthan  Dances 125 

SWIFT,  IVAN 

The  Peasant's  ^ Prayer .  126 

Association 128 

TOMPKINS,  EUFINA  C. 

Question .'  130 

TROMBLY,  ALBERT  EDMUND 

At  a  London  Tavern 131 

The  Painting  of  Paolo  and  Francesca     .       .       .  135 

WILLIAMS,  OSCAR 

Illusion 137 

Revenge 138 

Mood 139 

THE  CONTRIBUTORS 140 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS  147 


THE  POET'S  PACK 


PIERROT,  BOOKFEIiLCrW 

Castles  in  Spain  to  toss  mid-air  — 

Where  heroes  dwell,  where  poets  sing, 
Where  fairies  play  and  saint  and  seer 

Rich  treasure  from  the  ages  bring  — 
Sweet  flowers  of  life  that  cannot  fade, 
What  treasures  rival  these,  man-made? 

Anguish  with  rapture  these  have  known, 

Have  thrilled  to  rainbow-tinted  beams 
From  morning  stars ;  shook  from  the  tree 

Of  life  strange  fruits,  dreamed  youth's  white  dreams: 
To  other  worlds  yearned,  undismayed  — 
What  treasures  rival  these,  man-made f 

While  here  upon  this  transient  plane 

You  caper  jesting,  vaunt  the  skill 
To  juggle  with  man's  precious  lore, 

Sentient  with  star-aspiring  will  — 
Pierrot,  immortal,  unafraid, 
What  treasures  rival  these,  man-made? 

—  BERTHA  GRANT  AVERY 


15 


'•V«V  '5DIED*  OF  DISEASE 

Tomorrow  with  the  crowd  as  still  as  he  — 

A  stupefying  stillness  in  the  air  — 
They  will  play  taps  above  him  carelessly, 

Nor  suffer  sorrow,  being  ordered  there. 

Trumpets  are  heartless  things.     The  buglers  blow 
Much  as  they  drill;  with  easy  measured  beat 

Play  on  unfeelingly.     They  do  not  know 
How  well  he  lived  whose  life  was  incomplete. 

Ah,  Bugles,  Bugles,  eyes  that  now  are  dim 

Shone  with  great  light!     Make  music  in  your  throats! 
Sing  out  the  highest  hopes  that  died  with  him, 

His  losing  battle  in  your  trembling  notes! 

—  ROBERT  0.  BALLOU 


16 


BEHIND  THE  ARRAS 

Long  is  the  night  that  waits  without  my  door. 
Before  the  arras  hung  by  Death,  I  keep 
The  vigil  of  my  best  beloved,  in  sleep 

Eternal,  that  shall  know  the  day  no  more. 

About  my  soul  the  wingless  memories  pour 
Like  moonlight  on  the  waters.     Calm  and  deep, 
The  great,  majestic  winds  of  sorrow  sweep 

Love's  day  behind,  and  endless  night  before. 

Calm  as  the  music  of  the  autumn  stars, 
Heart's  love  awaits  heart's  wakening  love  again, 

As  night  awaits  the  new  day's  heraldings. 
Beyond  the  dawn,  Love  sets  his  exemplars, 
Where,  tender  as  echoes  of  a  summer's  rain, 
He  guards  her  slumber  with  his  golden  wings. 

—  KENDALL  BANNING 


17 


HEIRLOOMS 

She  was  a  princess  fair  and  stately ; 
He  was  a  knight  who  loved  her  greatly; 
Boldly  he  wooed  and  passionately. 

Flourish  of  trumpet  and  glitter  of  lance! 
Three  hundred  years  is  their  line  unbroken ; 
A  race  blue-eyed  and  well  bespoken, 
Tall  and  fair,  is  the  princess'  token. 

Brave  is  the  child  of  the  True  Romance! 

He  was  a  dark  and  swaggering  rover; 

Seven  the  seas  he  voyaged  over  • 

Found  him  a  maid  and  became  her  lover. 

Red  are  the  lips  that  the  gypsies  bring! 
Of  fortune 's  store  he  wrought  good  measure,  — 
But  a  tribe  bred  strong  by  pain  and  pleasure 
Is  all  that  is  left  of  his  rover's  treasure. 

Wild  runs  the  Uood  in  the  fires  of  spring! 

Sturdy  the  line  that  holds  unbreaking ; 
Gypsy  calls  to  prince  for  the  taking; 
Queen  and  pirate  blend  in  the  making. 

What  reck  lovers  of  caste  or  king? 
Hearts  held  high  by  the  dames  who  bore  us, 
Limbs  built  strong  by  the  sires  before  us, 
Dreams  spun  true  by  the  spectral  chorus,  — 

Such  are  the  gifts  that  our  fathers  bring! 

—  KENDALL  BANNING 


18 


FORSOOTH  I  AM  A  GYPSY 

My  soul  is  full  of  morning, 
My  heart  is  full  of  song; 

Forsooth,  I  am  a  gypsy 

That  roves  the  world  along. 

Beyond  the  Hills  of  Shadow, 
Beyond  the  Vales  o'  Fear, 

I  pitch  my  tent  and  tarry 
A  day,  a  month,  a  year. 

And  none  shall  tax  my  spirit, 
And  none  my  dreams  destroy ; 

For  I  am  free  as  winds  are, 
A  comrade  unto  Joy! 


—  CHARLES  G.  BLANDEN 


19 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

Not  uninvited  entered  Death, 

For,  in  the  twilight  dim, 
We  saw  her  smile,  and  gladly  go 

Away  with  him. 

We  wished  not  back  to  suffering 

The  spirit  that  had  passed, 
Nor  troubled  with  our  cries  the  night 

That  gathered  fast. 

We  only  knelt  about  her  couch, 
And  spoke  with  bated  breath 

Of  how  the  vale  grew  light  when  she 
Walked  through  with  Death. 


—  CHARLES  G.  BLANDEN 


20 


HEREAFTER 

When  all  these  worlds,  like  millet  seed, 
Are  blown  into  some  crack  of  Space, 

I  wonder  shall  I  play  my  reed 

And  sing  some  beauty  of  the  place. 


—  CHARLES  G.  BLANDEN 


21 


TODAY 

Today  is  like  old  wine. 

The  cloudless  sky,  the  dancing  light,  the  breeze, 

All  set  the  quick  blood  coursing  in  my  veins. 

The  circling  hills  of  yellow  maple  trees 

Chalice  the  day  within  a  cup  of  gold. 

Once  Sappho  laughed  beneath  her  apple  tree 

And  loved  this  day. 

Then  it  was  Spring;  the  day  was  young; 

And,  lavish  of  its  blossoms,  flung 

Its  youth  away. 

But,  Sappho,  smiling  at  the  sky 

Sang  it  to  immortality. 

Now  you  and  I  laugh  with  the  yellow  leaves, 

Blow  off  the  dust  of  time.     Here,  rich  and  fine, 

Mellowed  by  centuries,  sparkling,  clear, 

Here  is  the  once  young  day,  now  rich,  rare  wine. 

—  MARION  M.  BOYD 


22 


EVOLUTION  OF  A  GENIUS 

Selections  from  the  work  of  B.  Harvey  Blinking,  aged  nine, 
as  reported  by  loving  relatives 

I 

Goo  —  goo  —  goo 
Oh,  goo  —  ooo  —  ooo ! 
Mama! 
(Composed  at  age  two,  displaying  great  feeling  for  the 

magic  line.) 

II 
Please  Santa 

Bring  me  a  little  horse 
And  a  sled 

And  candy,  of  course. 
(Age  three;  first  experiments  in  regular  forms.) 

Ill 

Oh,  the  daisies  are  nodding 

Their  heads  at  me 
And  the  buttercups  tryst  with 

The  bumblebees. 
(Age  four;  strong  leanings  towards  nature.) 

IV 

On  the  hill  I  have  strolled 
Where  the  little  lambs  play 
And  down  by  the  brook 
In  a  hidden  nook 
Where  no  children  look 
God  lives  alway. 

(Age  five;  begins  to  shoiv  the  influence  of  Browning.) 

23 


V 

When  boomed  the  guns  of  deadly  strife 

And  all  the  land  with  blood  had  run, 
There  came  one  day  to  give  his  life 

A  hero  named  George  Washington. 
(Etc.  for  twenty  stanzas.    Age  six.     Culmination  of  the 

lyric  period.) 

VI 

I  stand  beside  the  ebbing  tide 

Where  many  ripples  play 
And  mourn  the  days  of  innocence 

Forever  flung  away. 
0  tasted  youth,  0  wasted  youth ! 

Thy  happy  days  I  mourn, 
There's  naught  but  bitterness  and  death 

For  me  when  youth  is  gone. 
(Age  seven.    Sproutings  of  modernism.) , 

VII 

The  world  was  black. 

Night  seemed  unending. 
My  soul  a-rack 

Suffered  heart-rending. 
The  stars  were  gone, 

And  sin  the  deceiver 
Led  me  on  and  on, 

Fearing  to  leave  her. 
Life  and  death  were  the  same ; 
Then  You  came     .     .     . 

(Age  eight.    Strong  technique.    Influence  of  Carl  Sand- 
burg.) 


24 


VIII 

Under  my  door 
Crept  a  sunbeam 
And  never  stopped 
Until  it  reached 
A  tack  in  the  carpet. 
(Age  nine.    Free  verse  at  last.    Hailed  far  and  wide  as  the 

Real  Thing.) 

—  JOHN  S.  BROWN 


25 


HAGIOLOGY 

I 

ST.  SEBASTIAN 

My  happy  lot  the  martyr's  crown  to  wear, 
My  happy  lot  the  arrow's  pain  to  bear  — 

0  who,  thus  blessed,  would  his  place  exchange 
With  old  Stylites  on  his  pillar  there ! 

II 

ST.  ROSE  OF  LIMA 

Good  people,  stay  your  hurrying  feet  and  view 
This  needlework  that  I  have  done  for  you. 

The  barb  that  wrought  it  goads  my  tortured  side. 
So  puissant  are  God's  mercies  in  Peru! 

Ill 

ST.  CYRIL 

Tho'  peaceful,  I  a  holy  sword  became 
And  purg'd  Hypatia  of  her  mortal  blame. 

1  had  her  dragged  to  church  and  massacred 
And  scraped  her  bones  to  glorify  Thy  Name. 

IV 

ST.  SATAN 

Great  Master  God,  Thy  cleansing  fires  burn  well ; 
Thy  mercy  shines  for  ev  'n  Thy  saint  who  fell. 

With  burning  throat  I  cry,  Thy  will  be  done ! 
Send  me  more  souls,  more  souls  to  damn  in  hell ! 


26 


V 

ST.  Pro 

Dear  Lord,  'tis  Thy  decree  that  I  in  state 
Shall  sit  upon  the  Throne  Pontificate. 

No  longer  peace  and  homely  joys  to  know, 
But  for  Thy  sake  I  must  be  rich  and  great. 

VI 

ST.  Mio 

My  loves,  my  hates,  my  fortune  yet  to  find, 
Some  random  verse  that  I  may  leave  behind  — 

These  constitute  my  hagiology. 
Nor  gods  nor  saints  else  occupy  my  mind. 

—  JOHN  S.  BROWN 


27 


NATURE'S  SANCTUARY 

In  the  cool  glen  where  by  the  rushing  river 
The  branches  drooping  o  'er  the  crystal  waters 
Sway  in  the  enchanted  breeze  —  thou  art  with  me, 
Spirit  eternal! 

From  the  far  hillside  comes  the  mellow  tinkle 
Of  distant  cow-bells  long  and  listless  falling  — 
A  sound  of  earth,  yet  borne  from  airy  regions 
In  cloudland  floating! 

Hark !  underneath  the  bowery  vines  and  blossoms 
Ethereal  loves  in  tenderest  notes  are  stealing 
Where  the  lone  woodbird  to  the  streamlet  poureth 
His  delicate  passion. 

From  myriad  leaflets  quivering  in  the  sunlight 
Soft  insect  murmurs  fill  the  whispering  silence  — 
So  faint,  so  clear,  yet  sweet,  faint  echoes  waking 
In  my  lone  bosom. 

Oh !  were  it  mine  to  mingle  with  the  fragrance 
And  music  of  this  morn  these  thoughts  of  beauty 
To  guard  one  gleam  of  nature's  joy  forever, 
How  sweet  the  rapture! 

—  GEORGE  F.  BUTLER 


28 


HOME 

Wherever  smoke  wreaths 

Heavenward  curl  — 
Cave  of  a  hermit, 
Hovel  of  churl, 

Mansion  of  merchant,  princely  dome  — 
Out  of  the  dreariness, 
Into  its  cheeriness, 
Come  we  in  weariness 
Home. 

I,  too,  have  wandered 

Through  the  far  lands. 
Home  there  was  their  home ; 

Open  their  hands. 

Yet  though  all  brothers,  born  of  the  foam, 
Far  o'er  appalling  sea, 
Ever  enthralling  me, 
Blood  still  was  calling  me 
Home.     „ 

Men  speak  of  jewels 
Earth  holds  abroad. 
What  can  compare  with 

One  bit  of  sod, 

Full  of  the  love-gold  sunk  in  the  loam? 
There  lies  my  holy  dead, 
And  there  my  mother  shed 
Tears  o  'er  my  sleeping  head  — 
Home. 


29 


Home     .     .     .    where  I  first  knew 

Day  was  alight; 
Where  I  would  fain  be 
Ere  the  Long  Night, 

That  they  might  write  this  in  some  old  tome : 
This  earth  the  womb  was; 
This  earth  the  room  was; 
This  earth  the  tomb  was. 
HOME. 

—  STEPHEN  CHALMERS 


30 


THE  WEEDS 

Men  scorn  them,  but  the  wiser  day 
Looks  never  from  the  weeds  away. 
They  honor  him  as  best  they  may, 
And  so  their  humble  summer  goes. 

Sometimes  I  think  the  soft  winds  stay 
With  them  the  longest,  in  their  play, 
And  all  the  sweet  things  to  them  say 
They  but  say  over  to  the  rose. 


—  JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY 


31 


WIND 

Yellow  Fox 
Beds  in  the  rocks; 
Brown  Bird,  in  the  tree 
Houses  he; 

But  Wind,  come  forth 
Of  south  and  north, 
Of  east  and  west, 
Where  shall  he  rest  ? 

Snake  and  Eft 
Slip  into  the  cleft; 
Marmot  sleeps  sound 
Underground ; 
Wind  o'  the  hill 
Is  wandering  still; 
And  Wind  o'  the  sea, 
When  sleepeth  he? 

Clouds  of  the  air 
Slumber  there; 
Flowers  droop  the  head, 
Leaves  lie  dead; 
But  Wind,  worn  Wind, 
What  rest  shall  he  find? 
When  shall  he  roam 
The  wild  road  home? 


—  JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY 


32 


REMEMBERING 

« 
I  look  for  you  in  the  liquid  blue, 

Past  the  billowy  folds  of  fleece, 
In  the  lights  which  lie  in  the  deep,  dark  sky 

At  the  gates  of  eternal  peace. 

I  look  for  you  in  the  first  faint  hue 
Which  the  earliest  springtime  wears, 

And  I  search  the  maze  of  the  golden  haze 
Which  the  opulent  autumn  bears. 

Is  it  you,  is  it  you  in  the  beaded  dew, 

Perfumed  by  the  morning  rose  ? 
Or  are  you  set  in  that  silhouette 

Of  the  moonlit  pines  and  snows  ? 

In  the  twilight  gloom  of  your  own  white  room, 

I  listen  to  hear  you  stir, 
And  I  look  for  you  when  a  door  swings  to, 

In  a  place  where  you  never  were. 

Are  you  in  that  mist  by  the  hill-top  kissed, 
Or  the  rose-pearled  morning  tinge? 

Do  I  hear  you  pass  on  the  plumes  of  grass  ? 
Are  you  veiled  in  the  rainbow 's  fringe  ? 

Are  you  there  in  the  yield  of  the  wind-worn  field  ? 

Or  the  calm  of  cathedralled  woods  ? 
Are  you  in  the  tide,  where  the  Nereids  ride 

And  flourish  their  fleecy  hoods  ? 

I  look  in  the  spray  of  the  Milky  Way, 

I  search  in  the  violet 's  nook, 
I  gaze  in  the  mild,  sweet  eyes  of  a  child, 

And  oh !  were  it  but  your  look ! 

33 


I  have  sought,  I  have  sought,  but  have  found  you  not ; 

I  am  bruised  by  the  blind,  blank  wall ; 
And  yet,  dearest  one,  though  found  in  none, 

I  have  found  you  in  them  all! 

For  wherever  is  hint,  be  it  tone  or  tint, 

Of  the  beautiful,  good,  or  true, 
Afar  or  at  hand,  on  sea  or  on  land, 

There  is  something  which  speaks  of  you. 

You  have  made  your  home  in  the  field  and  foam ; 

You  are  flecked  in  the  sunlight 's  ray ; 
You  are  part  of  the  dark  where  my  heart  is  a-hark, 

As  the  ageing  Night  grows  gray. 

You  are  part  of  my  innermost  life,  dear  heart, 

And  are  part  of  the  uttermost  star. 
You  are  one  with  the  sod  and  the  soul  of  God, 

And  because  you  have  been,  you  are. 

—  EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE 
(Copyrighted  1917  by  the  author) 


34 


BORN  WITHOUT  A  CHANCE 
(February  12, 1809) 

A  squalid  village  set  in  wintry  mud. 

A  hub-deep  ox-cart  slowly  groans  and  squeaks. 
A  horseman  hails  and  halts.     He  shifts  his  cud 

And  speaks ;  — 

"Well,  did  you  hear?    Tom  Lincoln's  wife;  today. 
The  devil's  luck  for  folk  as  poor  as  they. 
Poor  Tom!    Poor  Nance! 


Poor  young  one !  born  without  a  chance ! 


"A  baby  in  that  God-forsaken  den, 

That  worse  than  cattle-pen! 

Well,  what  are  they  but  cattle  ?     Cattle  ?     Tut ! 

A  critter  is  beef,  hide  and  tallow,  but 

Who  'd  swap  one  for  the  critters  of  that  hut  ? 

White  trash !  small  fry ! 

Whose  only  instinct  is  to  multiply ! 

"They're  good  at  that, 

And  so,  to-day,  God  wot,  another  brat ! 

A  puking,  squalling,  red-faced  good-for-naught 

Spilled  on  the  world,  heaven  only  knows  for  what. 

Better  if  he  were  black, 

For  then  he'd  have  a  shirt  upon  his  back 

And  something  in  his  belly  as  he  grows. 

More  than  he's  like  to  have,  as  I  suppose. 

Yet  there  be  those 

Who  claim  'equality'  for  this  new  brat, 

And  that  damned  democrat 

Who  squats  to-day  where  Washington  once  sat, 

He'd  have  it  that  this  Lincoln  cub  might  be 

Of  even  value  in  the  world  with  you  and  me ! 

35 


"Yes,  Jefferson,  Tom  Jefferson.    Who  but  he, 

Who  even  hints  that  black  men  should  be  free. 

That  feather-headed  fool  would  tell  you,  maybe, 

A  president  might  lie  in  this  new  baby, 

In  this  new  squawker  born  without  a  rag 

To  hide  himself !     Good  God,  it  makes  me  gag ! 

This  beggar-spawn 

Born  for  a  world  to  wipe  its  feet  upon 

A  few  years  hence,  but  now 

More  helpless  than  the  litter  of  a  sow, 

And  —  oh,  well !  send  the  women-folks  to  Nance. 

Poor  little  devil !  born  without  a  chance ! 

—  EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE 
(Copyright  1920,  N.  E  .A.) 


36 


MAKING  A  SONNET 

I  like  to  write  a  sonnet  as  I  dress, 
With  one  same  motion  wash  my  mind  and  face, 
And  as  I  sweep  away  deep  slumber's  trace, 
And  quickly  my  full  consciousness  possess, 
Then  forth  from  every  hidden  brain  recess 
I  draw  the  eager  prisoned  thoughts  that  race, 
And  as  I  'm  tying  up  my  last  shoe  lace 
The  octave 's  done  with  small  or  great  success. 
Then  as  I  choose  a  collar  stiff  or  soft, 
And  start  to  pick  a  necktie  for  the  day, 
I'll  wear  most  anything  that  comes  my  way, 
Since  mental  works  are  whirring  up  aloft, 
And  if  for  rhymes  I  do  not  have  to  beg, 

The  sonnet's  ready  with  the  breakfast  egg. 

—  HENRY  CORNEAU  DILLER 


37 


SULTAN  MAHMUD  III  TO  HIS  LOVE 

(A  Gazel,  Ottoman  Verse) 

The  breathing  cypress  movement,  thy  slow  grace  resembles ; 

The  silent  dancing  juniper,  thy  footpace  resembles. 

The  faint  and  rosy  blush  of  morn,  who  early  wakens 

To  greet  her  ruddy  lover,  thy  sweet  face  resembles. 

Thy  black  long  hair  of  musky  fragrance  o'er  thy  gleaming 
shoulders 

Hanging  in  coils — yea — writhing  serpents  in  thy  lace  re 
sembles. 

Throw  off  thy  golden  veil  and  let  me  kiss  thy  lips  forever! 

Low  raptured  music,  thy  soft  warm  embrace  resembles. 

Ah,  Mahmud's  love,  which  bows  to  thy  blue-purple  sandals, 

A  watchful  slave,  prostrate  before  thy  grace,  resembles. 

—  WENDELL  ERIC  DIXON 


38 


EXILED 

In  western  fields  the  golden  poppies  bloom  ; 
Wild  daisies  spread  their  patterns  on  the  hills ; 
On  yellow  sands  the  sea 's  blue  goblet  spills, 
And  o'er  the  pines  the  warding  mountains  loom,  — 
While  here  I  smother  in  a  little  room, 
With  flowers  potted  on  the  window  sills, 
Flecked  with  the  sooty  spawn  of  smoking  mills, 
The  city 's  walls  about  me  like  a  tomb. 

Exiled  from  scenes  that  burn  in  memory's  eyes, 
To  brooding  grief  my  soul  no  more  shall  yield, 
Though  mills  instead  of  mountains  meet  the  view ; 
No  longer  shall  I  pine  for  homeland  skies, 
For  old,  familiar  paths  in  wood,  and  field, 
Since  one  I  love  is  with  me,  exiled  too. 

—  HENRY  DUMONT 


39 


GEORGE  CHAVEZ 

Dauntless  he  soared  above  the  Alpine  snow 
That  once  had  woven  shackles  for  the  feet 
Of  conquering  armies,  and  a  burial  sheet 
For  many  a  fallen  warrior  long  ago ; 
And  gazing  on  the  barrier  below, 
"Where  shades  of  Hannibal  and  Caesar  meet, 
His  soul  their  daring  spirits  dared  to  greet, 
And  knew  a  joy  that  they  could  never  know. 

Intrepid  bird,  on  pinions  young  and  frail, 
He  dared  the  secret  hazards  of  the  skies, 
Scorning  the  safer  paths  their  feet  had  trod ; 
And  with  the  light  of  triumph  in  his  eyes. 
He  fell,  the  breaker  of  an  airy  trail, 
Pierced  by  the  arrow  of  a  jealous  god. 

—  HENRY  DUMONT 


40 


THE  HUSH 

It  was  a  hush  that  folded  like  a  flower 

And  awed  away  all  anger  quietly; 
And  long  before  your  dear  low  voice  of  power 

Brought  comfort  or  forgiveness,  I  was  free ; 
For  in  that  hush  I  held  my  little  hour, 

And  in  that  hush  God's  heart  beat  once  for  me. 

—  BETTY  EAELE 


41 


PAKACLETE 

They  must  be  friendly  with  defeat 
Who  would  the  paths  of  glory  tread, 
And  meekly  walk  with  humbled  head. 

For  them,  life 's  ways  will  not  be  sweet, 
But  they  will  know  the  deathless  dead ; 

They  must  be  friendly  with  defeat, 
Who  would  the  paths  of  glory  tread. 

The  spirit  of  the  Paraclete 
Will  on  their  path  a  radiance  shed, 
And  form  a  nimbus  for  the  head. 

They  must  be  friendly  with  defeat 
Who  would  the  paths  of  glory  tread, 
And  meekly  walk  with  humbled  head. 

— CHARLOTTE  EATON 


42 


CHOPIN 

I  hurried  in  from  sleety  rain, 
Fatigued  from  where  my  feet  had  strayed ; 
Some  one  below  a  Nocturne  played. 

And  all  the  pressure  and  the  pain 

Out  of  my  thought  began  to  fade  ; 
I  hurried  in  from  sleety  rain, 

Fatigued  from  where  my  feet  had  strayed. 

The  sweetness  of  that  subtle  strain, 

Dispersed  the  evils  that  degrade, 

And  from  my  heart  to  God  I  prayed. 
I  hurried  in  from  sleety  rain, 

Fatigued  from  where  my  feet  had  strayed ; 

Some  one  below  a  Nocturne  played. 

—  CHARLOTTE  EATON 


43 


WAR 

All  through  the  war  I  could  not  thrill; 
Its  dastard  blight  my  spirit  scarred; 
I  could  not  praise;  I  am  a  bard. 

That  man  should  organize  to  kill, 
Depressed  my  thought  and  pressed  me  hard. 

All  through  the  war  I  could  not  thrill, 
I  could  not  praise ;  I  am  a  bard. 

The  arrant  waste  of  so  much  skill, 

Science's  fruit,  misued,  ill-starred, 

From  its  right  purposes  debarred, 
All  through  the  war  I  could  not  thrill; 

Its  dastard  blight  my  spirit  scarred. 

I  could  not  praise — I  am  a  bard. 

—  CHARLOTTE  EATON 


44 


REGRET 

It  comes  upon  me  with  a  rush, 
My  life  of  helplessness  and  shame ; 
It  burns  into  my  flesh  like  flame. 

I  feel  it  in  the  evening's  hush; 

When  thought  coherence  seeks  to  frame, 
It  comes  upon  me  with  a  rush, 

My  life  of  helplessness  and  shame. 

Sometimes  a  hidden  hermit  thrush 
Seems  wistfully  to  pipe  your  name 
That  fills  me  with  a  poignant  blame. 

It  comes  upon  me  with  a  rush, 
My  life  of  helplessness  and  shame. 
It  burns  into  my  flesh  like  flame. 

—  CHARLOTTE  EATON 


45 


LOVE  IN  SPRING 

Hummers  at  the  hedge  rows, 

Meadow  larks  in  air, 
Mockers  in  the  apricots, 

Music  everywhere. 
Linnets  feeding  birdlings 

Just  above  my  door, 
Spring,  eternal  lover, 

Greening  all  earth 's  floor. 
Joy  and  love  in  sunshine 

So  rich,  it  makes  you  start ; 
All  the  world  is  singing, 

"Marita  has  your  heart." 


—  CHARLES  FAEWELL  EDSON 


46 


DESTINY 

In  the  dusk  at  Galloway, 

The  clover  fragrance  bade  me  stay. 

The  crickets  'gainst  the  coming  night 

Chanted  praise  of  candle-light. 

The  trees  bent  down  and  swept  a  sweet 

Home-searching  spell  about  my  feet. 

I  groped,  and  groping  found  a  ^door, 

As  one  long  sought  and  waited  for. 


—  ETHEL  M.  ERICSON 


47 


CHRYSANTHEMUM  CHILD 

Just  as  instinctively  as  I  would  fold 
Protecting  arms  about  a  little  child, 

And  search  its  eyes  for  sudden  love  and  trust, 
I  bend  above  you,  Child  of  God,  and  thrust 
My  hand  beneath  your  head,  splendid  and  wild, 
With  windy  hair  like  winter  sunset  gold. 

Perhaps  it  is  because  you  grow  child-high, 
And  I  can  reach  and  love  you  as  I  will, 
Or  pause  to  feel  you  brushing  by  my  side, 
The  cunning  fingers  of  your  leaves  spread  wide 
In  vague  caresses  wandering,  until 
You  touch  an  ancient  love  that  cannot  die ! 

—  ETHEL  M.  ERICSON 


48 


JANUARY 

The  dawn  comes  late  and  cold  and  brings  no  cheer ; 

Blue  shadows  lie  across  the  driven  snow; 

Dim  skies  shut  down  upon  the  world  below, 
Save  in  the  east,  where  ruddy  lines  appear, 
Piercing  the  purple  cloud-banks  like  a  spear. 

Adown  the  road  creaking  wagons  go ; 

The  teamsters  beat  their  breasts  to  keep  aglow ; 
Their  frosty  breath  floats  upward,  keen  and  clear. 

As  thus  I  watch  the  coming  of  the  day 

And  think  of  summer  suns  and  waving  grain, 

The  Master  Artist,  at  my  side  alway, 
Sketches  with  frosty  pencil  on  the  pane 

Leaves,  ferns  and  nodding  flowers,  as  He  would  say, 
' '  Take  heart,  and  wait.    All  these  shall  come  again. ' ' 

—  WALTER  TAYLOR  FIELD 


49 


SONNET 

And  this  is  death  ?  —  To  lie  upon  a  hill 

"Warmed  by  the  gentle  breath  of  summer  night, 
And  swoon  in  olden  memories  that  fill 

The  soothed  brain  with  dreams  of  cool  delight : 
To  see  within  the  stars  a  loved  one 's  eye 

Forgotten  long  ago,  and  in  the  wind 
To  catch  the  little  flutter  of  a  sigh 

Borne  from  the  years  that  linger  far  behind. 

And  then  to  sleep,  lulled  by  eternal  rest, 

Watched  by  eternal  peace  that  none  may  break, 

Deep  in  the  sheltering  stillness  of  the  breast 

Of  maiden  time,  whose  youth  shall  never  wake  — 

Calm  as  the  waning  twilight  in  the  west, 
Fair  as  the  morns  that  Springtimes  overtake. 

—  FRANCIS  FIELDING-REID 


50 


SLEEP,  THE  MOTHER 

Sleep,  the  mother, 

Has  taken  her  over. 

She  has  slipped  from  my  arms 

Into  the  arms  of  this  other, 

Who  has  touched  her  softly, 

Who  has  flushed  her  with  dreaming. 

This  is  not  the  same 

Sleep  who  gathers  men 

Heavy  with  labor, 

Women  drugged  with  pleasure. 

This  is  the  mother 

Of  little  children  only, 

Moving  as  a  wind 

From  white  spaces, 

Flushing  their  faces 

With  a  soft  flame,  holily, 

To  whom  the  mothers  of  the  earth 

Give  up  their  children 

Joyously,  with  a  clean  gladness, 

With  only  a  little  sadness, 

Such  as  hurts  mothers, 

For  their  mortality. 

—  For  they  remember  also, 

Remembering  swiftly, 

Death  too  is  a  mother !  — 

But  now  her  lashes  curl  delicately, 

The  blue  veins  of  her  eyelids 

Show  sweetly  in  the  soft  skin. 

Her  red  mouth  droops  slowly.     .     . 


51 


And  hovering  over 
The  child  she  is  holding 
Is  Sleep,  the  white  mother, 
With  arms  enfolding ! 


—  FLORENCE  KIPEB  FRANK 


52 


OCTOBER 

I  cannot  get  enough  of  trees, 

Nor  sharp-lit  mornings  such  as  these 

When  from  my  house's  smallness  I 

Step  out  and  quick  possess  the  sky, 

And  feel  along  my  blood  the  race 

Of  leaves  that  scurry  every  place. 

O  I'm  afraid  that  I  shall  be 

Dead,  and  the  love  gone  out  of  me 

Before  of  life  I've  had  my  fill 

And  seen  enough  light  upon  the  hill, 

Before  this  greedy  joy  is  fed 

For  clouds  and  winds  and  bushes  red ! 


—  FLORENCE  KIPEB  FRANK 


53 


ELF-CHILD 

They'll  get  your  rollicking  spirit  pretty  soon, 

Taming  you  to  the  observances  of  days, 

They'll  teach  you  how  to  tread  the  ordered  maze, 

Little  wild  baby  dancing  under  the  moon ; 

Not  to  go  prancing  at  the  call  of  the  loon, 

Mad  little  darling  of  the  runaways ! 

Of  conversation,  manners,  prim  delays 

They'll  tell  you  —  and  nice  use  of  the  fork  and  spoon. 

O  please,  0  please  don't  let  it  be  all  wasted 
That  you  from  streams  have  drunk  a  dear  delight, 
You  who  have  lived  with  faery,  and  have  tasted 
Delicate  rumours,  stirrings  of  the  sprite. 
Do  sometimes  put  your  fingers  to  your  nose, 
And  still  go  dancing  on  your  little  toes! 

—  FLORENCE  KEPER  FRANK 


54 


IVORY  THUMBS 

"All  flesh  is  not  the  same  flesh:  biit  there  is  one  kind  of  flesh 

of  men" 

Turbulence  of  trumpets,  insistency  of  drums, 

Imperious  banners  floating  beneath  whose  flaunt  there  conies 

The  worshipful  Ivory  Emperor  with  his  consecrated  thumbs. 

The  cavalcade  is  halted,  the  Ivory  Lord  descends 
To  his  box  by  the  arena  where  a  multitude  attends. 
He  is  here  for  the  sport  of  a  thousand  kings,  a  sport  that  never 
ends. 

Around  the  field  of  combat  the  Pale  Man  leads  the  trail, 
Bearing  a  trident  long  and  sharp,  the  devil's  forked  tail, 
And  dangling  a  net,  half  mockingly,  for  the  trick  which  can 
not  fail. 

Through  the  grated  doorway,  harsh  of  hinge  and  grim, 
Another  comes  on  the  saffron  sands,  shadowy-hued  of  limb ; 
And  the  Pale  Man  looks  at  the  Man  of  Bronze  and  the  Bronze 
Man  looks  at  him. 

Back  of  the  Pale  Man,  lifted  high,  are  the  glories  of  Babylon ; 
The  frieze  of  his  sky  is  carven  with  the  shafts  of  the  Parthenon 
And  the  pride  of  Rome  that  had  wrought  its  dreams  in  the 
brooding  Pantheon. 

Back  of  the  Bronze  Man  lie  the  deeps  of  the  forests'  brazen 

gloom 

Where  the  jungle  was  his  cradle  and  the  jungle  was  his  tomb, 
And  his  songs  had  the  pulse  of  the  naked  night  and  the  cadence 

of  all  doom. 


55 


Between  the  Bronze  Man's  lips  whistles  an  anguished  breath. 
He  looks  at  the  Ivory  Emperor,  at  his  thumbs  of  life  and  death. 
"Stir  up  the  laggard,"  the  Emperor  says.    "Too  long  he  tar- 
rieth." 

The  Bronze  Man's  knife  is  short,  the  Pale  Man's  spear  is  long, 
But  back  and  forth  they  hew  and  hack  in  rhythm  fierce  and 

strong, 
And  loud  on  the  shield  the  trident  falls  with  the  clang  of  the 

burial  gong. 

The  Pale  Man 's  spear  is  raised,  his  eyes  upon  the  crown  — 
Swiftly  the  gleaming  point  descends  to  summon  the  floods  that 

drown, 
For  the  thumbs  of  the  Ivory  Emperor,  those  terrible  thumbs, 

are  down. 

—  LOUISE  AYRES  GARNETT 


56 


THE  CAPTIVE 

I  am  a  bird  and  the  fowler 

Has  caught  me  within  his  net. 
I  have  no  fear  at  my  capture  — 

I  only  fear  to  forget. 

Always  I  would  remember 

My  nest  at  the  river's  edge, 
The  call  of  my  mate  at  sunrise, 

The  swish  of  the  bending  sedge. 

Anguish  for  me  to  remember, 

But  death  for  me  to  forget  — 
I  am  a  bird  and  the  fowler 

Has  caught  me  within  his  net. 

—  LOUISE  AYBES  GARNETT 


57 


THE  SONGLESS  CITY 

"What  do  you  see,  Uncle  Michael  Ahanna, 

Over  the  sands  at  the  falling  day?" 
"I'm  seeing  a  city  all  golden  and  purple 

And  a  square  in  the  middle  for  children  to  play. 
And  there  are  fair  tall  groves  in  that  city, 

And  houses  of  agate  with  roofs  agleam, 
And  too  many  merchants  —  more 's  the  pity !  — 

To  traffick  there  in  the  courts  of  dream. 
But  for  all  of  that,  'tis  a  desolate  sight, 

And  its  folk,  that  were  mighty,  are  dying  away 

For  the  lack  of  the  dance  in  the  streets  by  day, 
Or  the  sound  of  the  harp  from  the  roofs  at  night." 

—  CLIFFORD  FRANKLIN  GESSLER 


58 


FREE  RUSSIA 

Love,  and  the  glorious  crimson  wings  of  war, 

The  dear  familiar  sadnesses  of  earth, 

Winds  in  the  wood,  and  the  new  spring's  sweet  birth; 
Old  madnesses  that  men  have  perished  for 
And  loveliness  that  thronged  the  ancient  day 

With  clash  of  crowding  swords  and  trumpet  call 

And  heroes'  deeds  high  graven  on  time's  wall  — 
These  have  been  sung:  there  is  no  more  to  say. 

But  out  of  the  North,  and  from  the  frozen  sea, 
From  minds  unquelled  by  force,  unbought  by  hire, 
A  Word  goes  forth,  a  faith  for  which  men  die, 
A  roar  of  crashing  thrones  —  the  folk  are  free ! 
0  Poet !  plunge  your  pen  in  that  high  fire 
And  blazon  it  across  the  burnished  sky ! 

—  CLIFFORD  FRANKLIN  GESSLER 


59 


DUST  TO  DUST 

Little  dust  whirl 

Dancing  down  this  old  white  road, 

Are  you  the  ghost 

Of  my  very  great  grandmother 

Tossing  your  hair  again 

In  the  Spring  wind? 


—  ELEANOR  HAMMOND 


60 


INTERLOPER 

Your  little  head  is  downy  as  a  yellow  dandelion 

And  your  baby  face  is  innocent  as  a  sleeping  rosebud  — 

Yet  with  your  tiny,  clutching  hands 

You  have  torn  open  the  gates  of  paradise, 

Where  I  and  my  beloved  dwelt  alone, 

And  let  in  the  troubled  world ! 

—  ELEANOR  HAMMOND 


61 


PATCHWORK 

I  am  a  piece  of  patchwork 
Made  of  odds  and  ends  of  souls 
Stitched  together  hit  or  miss. 

What  wonder  you  can  not  always  follow  my  design 
Or  comprehend  my  color  scheme! 

—  ELEANOR  HAMMOND 


62 


HYMN  FOR  A  SPRING  NIGHT 

Against  the  purple  door  curtains  of  your  temple 
They  have  lighted  seven  flickering  candles. 
The  little  moon  throws  incense  on  the  air, 
And  the  wind  calls  like  a  muezzin. 

On  the  young  grass,  spread  for  a  silken  prayer  rug, 

I  will  kneel 

And  bow  my  forehead  down  into  the  dew 

And  give  thanks 

For  this  wild,  wind-blown  torch  flame  of  young  love 

That  is  mine! 

—  ELEANOR  HAMMOND 


63 


DEFEAT 

Whenever  sudden  beauty  flames  — 
Of  circling  gull  or  slender  tree  — 

My  heart  grows  tense  with  loneliness 
Because  you  are  not  there  to  see. 

And  songs  that  once  I  should  have  made 
Fall  dumb  outside  your  bolted  door. 

Why  should  I  ever  sing  again? 
You  will  not  hear  me  any  more ! 


—  ELEANOR  HAMMOND 


64 


PANAMA 

Where  stands  the  shrunk  mid-continent  upreared, 
Its  rib-rocks  to  a  mountain  cordon  thinned, 

Beneath  Thy  favor,  Lord,  at  last  lies  sheared 
The  long-sought  road  to  Ind. 

No  fabled  fairway  this;  for,  lest  men  find 

Their  dream  fulfilled  by  deeds  too  lightly  done, 

Thou  willed  that  but  by  travail  might  we  bind 
Thy  sundered  seas  in  one. 

These  sun-scorched  cordilleras,  from  whose  crest 

Balboa  saw  the  Western  wave  unrolled, 
These  swamps,  where  fever-maddened  men  have  pressed 

To  fight  and  die  for  gold, 

Are  cloven  by  the  toil  of  countless  hands, 

Are  blasted,  dredged  and  locked  by  brawn  and  brain 

To  serve  the  high  emprise  of  mightier  lands 
Than  plied  the  Spanish  Main 

With  questing  galleons  launched  on  ocean's  flood 
To  preach  the  Cross  by  firelock  and  by  sword 

And  sate  their  lust  with  trophies  stained  in  blood 
Aztec  and  Inca  poured. 

Now  giant  freighters  of  the  Elbe  and  Wear 

Shall  thread  the  jungles  known  of  Morgan's  men 

And  tread  down  valleys  whence  the  buccaneer 
Marched  forth  on  Darien  ; 

The  steel-laced  lattice  of  the  dreadnaught's  masts 
Shall  glide  between  Culebra's  man-made  shores, 

Tall  warriors  on  the  pathways  in  dead  pasts 
Worn  by  conquistadors. 

65 


Thy  warders,  Lord,  the  way  is  ours  to  hold, 
For  all  mankind  a  highroad  fair  at  need ; 

Oh,  shield  us  from  the  scarlet  sins  of  old, 
Base  arrogance  and  greed. 

For  if  men  rose  to  speed  this  task  of  ours, 

Thou  gavest  them  vision  and  the  strength  to  strive; 

If  faith  grew  faint,  at  war  with  Nature's  powers, 
Thou  madest  that  faith  survive. 

The  task  stands  done.     No  strange,  new-conquered  states 

Invoke  our  justice  on  imploring  knees ; 
Imperial  commerce  at  the  portal  waits, 

Drawn  from  the  seven  seas. 

Be  Thou  our  mentor,  Lord,  that  on  this  ground 

Where  mailed  and  sceptred  wrong  has  often  stood, 
Nation  with  nation  meeting,  may  be  bound 

v 


In  closer  brotherhood. 


—  JOSEPH  MILLS  HANSON 


66 


LAEAMIE  TRAIL 

Across  the  crests  of  the  naked  hills, 

Smooth-swept  by  the  winds  of  God, 
It  cleaves  its  way  like  a  shaft  of  gray 

Close-bound  by  the  prairie  sod. 
It  stretches  flat  from  the  sluggish  Platte 

To  the  lands  of  forest  shade ; 
The  clean  trail,  the  lean  trail, 

The  trail  the  troopers  made. 

It  draws  aside  with  a  wary  curve 

From  the  lurking,  dark  ravine, 
It  launches  fair  as  a  lance  in  air 

O'er  the  raw-ribbed  ridge  between; 
With  never  a  wait  it  plunges  straight 

Through  river  or  reed-grown  brook ; 
The  deep  trail,  the  steep  trail, 

The  trail  the  squadrons  took. 

They  carved  it  well,  those  men  of  old, 

Stern  lords  of  the  border  war, 
They  wrought  it  out  with  their  sabres  stout 

And  marked  it  with  their  gore. 
They  made  it  stand  as  an  iron  band 

Along  the  wild  frontier; 
The  strong  trail,  the  long  trail, 

The  trail  of  force  and  fear. 

For  the  stirring  note  of  the  bugle's  throat 

Ye  may  hark  today  in  vain, 
For  the  track  is  scarred  by  the  gang-plow's  shard 

And  gulfed  in  the  growing  grain. 
But  wait  tonight  for  the  moonrise  white ; 

Perchance  ye  may  see  them  tread 

67 


The  lost  trail,  the  ghost  trail, 
The  trail  of  the  gallant  dead. 

'Twixt  cloud  and  cloud  o  'er  the  pallid  moon 

From  the  nether  dark  they  glide, 
And  the  grasses  sigh  as  they  rustle  by 

Their  phantom  steeds  astride. 
By  four  and  four  as  they  rode  of  yore 

And  well  they  know  the  way ; 
The  dim  trail,  the  grim  trail, 

The  trail  of  toil  and  fray. 

With  tattered  guidons  spectral  thin 

Above  their  swaying  ranks, 
With  carbines  swung  and  sabres  slung 

And  the  gray  dust  on  their  flanks 
They  march  again  as  they  marched  it  then 

When  the  red  men  dogged  their  track, 
The  gloom  trail,  the  doom  trail, 

The  trail  they  came  not  back. 

They  pass,  like  a  flutter  of  drifting  fog, 

As  the  hostile  tribes  have  passed, 
As  the  wild- wing 'd  birds  and  the  bison  herds 

And  the  unfenced  prairies  vast, 
And  those  who  gain  by  their  strife  and  pain 

Forget,  in  the  land  they  won, 
The  red  trail,  the  dead  trail, 

The  trail  of  duty  done. 

But  to  him  who  loves  heroic  deeds 

The  far-flung  path  still  bides, 
The  bullet  sings  and  the  war-whoop  rings 

And  the  stalwart  trooper  rides, 


68 


For  they  were  the  sort  from  Snelling  Fort 

Who  traveled  fearlessly 
The  bold  trail,  the  old  trail, 

The  trail  to  Laramie. 


—  JOSEPH  MILLS  HANSON 


HOW  LONG  AGO ! 

How  long  ago,  and  bravely  I  set  forth 

To  come  to  that  high  place 
Where  Beauty  dwells,  and  doubted  not  my  worth 

To  look  upon  her  face. 

In  pride  of  strength,  conscious  of  high  desire, 

It  seemed  not  over  bold 
That  youth  and  faith  and  courage  should  aspire 

To  see  the  realms  of  gold. 

The  way  is  long;  and  I  have  known  such  sorrow, 

Such  cruel  burdens  borne, 
Each  day's  success  so  waits  upon  tomorrow 

That  I  am  overworn. 

And  should  I  find,  before  my  strength  is  spent, 

The  place  where  Beauty  stands, 
I  could  but  kneel,  a  sorry  suppliant, 

With  poor,  distorted  hands. 

—  BURTON  HASELTINE 


70 


NON  KBPETETUR 

Never  more  for  us  to  know 

Love  undomiciled, 
Since  such  love,  you  say,  will  grow 

Fickle  as  a  child. 

Well,  suppose  the  world  had  said, 

" Bless  you,"  long  ago; 
Poured  its  unction  on  our  head, 

Named  us  —  so  and  so. 

Think  you  life  would  be  more  sweet, 

Love  more  rich  in  flavor, 
Sitting  at  convention's  feet, 

With  discretion's  favor? 

Given  now  to  have  again 

Years  that  we  have  had, 
Would  we  pause  to  ask  if  men 

Thought  them  good  or  bad? 

Would  we  choose  the  bonds  of  bliss 

None  may  put  asunder, 
Or  the  pain  —  and  joy  —  of  this 

Love  of  ours?  —  I  wonder. 


—  BURTON  HASELTINE 


71 


LITTLE  HOUSE 

Let  us  build  a  little  house 

Bight  here  among  the  happy  oaks ; 

And  let  us  live  in  sweet  carouse 
With  star-eyed,  winsome  woodland  folks. 

And  let  us  build  it  snug  and  warm, 
And  friendly  to  the  winds  that  blow ; 

And  let  us  hide  in  it  a  charm 

To  bring  back  friends  who  come  and  go. 

The  walls  shall  be  of  gray  and  green, 
With  brown  eaves  frowning  overhead, 

And  wonders  through  wide  windows  seen 
Shall  speak  delights  of  hearth  and  bed. 

A  winding  walk  shall  wander  in, 
And  lilac  shrub  shall  lure  the  bees, 

And  neighbor-folk  will  wag  the  chin 
At  what  that  says  and  this  one  sees. 

An  hawthorne  hedge  shall  hold  us  round, 
And  two  deep  stoops  shall  cool  the  breeze, 

And  violets  wink  us  from  the  ground, 
While  tired  grandames  rest  their  knees. 

The  morning  sun  shall  break  a  lance 
Against  the  golden  window-pane, 

And  wake  us  up  from  dreams,  perchance, 
To  hail  the  east  with,  hearts  aflame. 

The  wide,  white  noon,  in  sun  or  snow, 

Will  glad  us  if  we  come  or  go ; 
But  oh,  at  dusk,  the  joy  well  know! 

The  fire-log  on  the  hearth  a-glow! 

72 


And  all  the  sky  above  the  world; 

The  wonder  of  the  world  around ; 
The  whispering  woods  in  shadows  furled  — 

And  we  two,  silent,  slumber-bound. 

—  LE  ROY  HENNESSEY 


73 


THE  SPIRIT'S  GRACE 

More  brightly  must  my  spirit  shine 
Since  grace  of  beauty  is  not  mine; 

As  shaded  light  and  converse  wise 
Fill  with  a  wondering  surprise 

The  weary  traveler  seeking  late 
A  lodging  at  some  cottage  gate  — 

So  would  I  that  my  Spirit's  grace 
Should  beautify  its  dwelling  place. 


—  JANIE  SCREVEN  HEY  WARD 


74 


HIS  CREED 

When  I  behold  a  man,  and  read 

His  kindly  actions  day  by  day, 
I  question  not  the  form  of  creed 

Conviction  urges  him  to  say. 

Nor  care  I  if  with  head  held  high, 

Or  with  obeisance  low 
He  seeks  the  path  that  leads  to  God. 

He  finds  it,  that  I  know. 

—  JANIE  SCREVEX  HEYWARD 


75 


DAFFODILS 

Pale  yellow  daffodils  are  like 
The  sunlit  souls  of  some  I  know  ; 

All  eagerness  —  and  yet  compelled 
To  blossom  in  an  ordered  row. 


—  JANIE  SCREVEN  HEYWARD 


76 


EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

The  bruit  about  your  name  is  not  immense  — 
Ten  men  I  know  have  never  heard  of  you  — 
But  in  the  eager  listening  of  a  few 
You  have  no  slender  meed  of  reverence. 
We  do  not  come  for  study  or  defence, 
To  learn  if  you  are  old,  or  somewhat  new, 
Content  to  watch  the  wizard  light  gleam  through 
The  shadowed  twilight  of  your  reticence. 

Since  Hamlet  walked  in  chilly  Elsinore 
Has  your  shrewd  wit  been  fairly  f ellowless ; 
And  since  one  whispered  of  his  lost  Lenore 
Has  failed  that  darkling  spell  our  hearts  confess 
In  Tilbury  town,  when  tempered  sunlight  showers 
Upon  the  man  Flammonde  among  the  autumn  flowers. 

—  HOYT  HOPEWELL  HUDSON 


77 


AT  A  MEMORIAL  SERVICE 

We  have  earth  and  the  broad  moon's  light  and  the  stars; 

We  can  still  battle  with  great  winds  buoyantly  leaping ; 
Dawn  yet  breaks  for  us ;  sunset  splendidly  burns : 

Life  has  us  in  her  keeping. 

They  have  turned  from  us ;  dark  death  called  and  they  went 
Under  the  earth  or  under  the  grey  sea,  bravely 

Holding  the  ultimate  quest ;  we  gather  and  go, 
Speaking  their  fair  names  gravely. 

Why  should  we  seek  to  recall  them,  trouble  with  words 
Those  who  have  fronted  the  fear-girt  presence,  and  wended 

Ways  that  our  heroes  and  kings,  crowned  singers  of  old 
Took,  and  taking  made  splendid? 

Ah,  but  companions  are  gone,  great  loneliness  comes ; 

Living  is  wistf ulness  now,  —  love  yearns  and  remembers 
Voices  that  failed,  blithe  comrades  that  vanished  and  left 

Colder  the  hearth-fire  embers. 

Only  we  know  they  are  near,  being  one  with  the  earth, 
One  with  the  passionless  dust  and  the  great  winds  leaping : 

They  are  not  gone  from  the  sunlit  range  of  the  day! 
Life  has  them  in  her  keeping. 

We  too  are  one  with  the  day,  we  move  by  the  laws 

Ruling  the  swinging  stars  and  the  care-free  sweep  of  the 

swallow. 
Live  we  or  die,  we  shall  not  depart  from  their  presence  who 

passed  — 
Leading  the  way  we  follow! 

—  HOYT  HOPEWELL,  HUDSON 

78 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  BIRDS 

He  looked  at  sombre  clouds  that  crowded  by 
Above  the  trembling  oak  and  maple  boughs, 
At  stubble-fields,  and  idle  rakes  and  ploughs; 
He  heard  a  song  the  west  wind  used  to  sigh 
When  he  was  young.     So  changing  earth  and  sky 
Brought  back  the  old  days,  when  he  drove  his  cows 
Along  the  lanes  about  his  father's  house, 
And  made  him  wonder,  ''Was  that  queer  lad  I?" 

There  was  reluctance  in  the  autumn  air, 

And  in  his  heart  as  he  turned  back  to  town. 

The  birds  were  starting  south,  their  black  wings  flung 

Against  the  clouds;  once  more  the  birds  would  bear 

A  part  of  him  to  exile,  flying  down 

Strange  ways  his  dreams  had  gone  when  he  was  young. 

—  HOYT  HOPEWELL  HUDSON 


79 


PALINGENESIS 

And  if  I  do  return  —  with  finer  passion 

Sloughed  stark  and  clean  and  eager  as  the  wind, 
Questing  again  but  in  a  nobler  fashion 

The  rough,  old  world  ways  where  I  sought  and  sinned; 
Let  me  run  tingling  through  a  slender  tree, 

Breaking  like  laughter  into  verdant  flame, 
Drawing  deep,  fecund  vision  into  me 

Out  of  the  warmth  and  darkness  whence  I  came, 
Let  me,  a  quiet  fragment  of  delight, 

Scatter  dissolving  fragrance  down  the  air, 
Merged  in  the  fluent  beauty  of  the  night, 

Caught  in  the  trailing  silver  of  her  hair; 
Music  or  flame,  God,  blossom,  bird  or  breeze  — 
If  I  return  —  why  not  as  one  of  these  ? 

—  HAZEL  COLLISTEB  HUTCHISON 


80 


DESIGN 

Already  you  are  slipping  back 

Into  your  flamboyant  cloak  again, 

Tying  it  fast  with  the  fluttering  ribbons 

Of  your  laughter, 

Drawing  its  soft,  close  collar  of  content 

About  you, 

Snapped  at  the  throat  with  a  glittering  jewel 

Of  hauteur. 

I  am  not  deceived. 

For  a  moment  I  saw 

A  slim,  dark  passion 

Of  desire  and  pain 

Pricked  with  pale  points  of  dream  fire. 

Now  I  am  remembering 

A  tall,  black  juniper 

Starred  with  fire  flies 

Seen  once  upon  a  country  road  somewhere 

At  dusk. 

—  HAZEL  COLLISTER  HUTCHISON 


81 


WE  WHO  MAY  NEVER  BE 

We  who  may  never  be 

Wine,  fire  to  each  other, 

Only  pain, 

We  who  must  live  forever  waiting, 

Ever  fain, 

Let  us  rejoice! 

One  sorrow  past  enduring 

We  need  not  know, 

The  impotent,  wan  agony  of  watching 

Our  glory  go. 

Never  shall  sated  love, 

Grim,  livid  with  remembrance 

Like  a  scar 

Mock  the  white  magic  of  that  first  awakening 

To  high  dream  and  star, 

But  like  a  flame 

Forever  glowing 

Passionate  and  strong 

Our  love  shall  be  a  birth  and  a  beginning, 

A  climbing  song. 

—  HAZEL  COLLISTER  HUTCHISON 


82 


MAY  SUNDAY 

Birds  who  are  all  unlearned  in  sin  and  doubt 
Assail  this  quietness  with  careless  rapture; 

They  laugh  at  gloom ;  they  jest  and  jeer  and  flout. 

Teach  me  your  lack  of  sorrow,  thoughtless  birds, 

Teach  me  your  songs  which  have  no  use  for  words, 
Your  lyric  joy  which  I  can  never  capture. 

Over  the  sullen  quiet  of  the  hills, 
A  church  bell  flings  its  melancholy  breath : 

Hamlet,  apostrophising  human  ills; 
Solomon,  preaching  vanity  and  death. 

Vanity!  .  .  .  Vanity!  .  .  .  Vanity!  ...  It  fills 
With  aching  numbness  all  the  world  of  sound, 
Gathering  curious  echoes  from  the  ground : 

* '  All  flesh  is  grass, ' '  and,  ' '  Evil  are  our  wills. 


•>  •> 


Answer  him,  birds,  tell  him  you  do  not  care ; 

Fling  in  his  teeth  your  shrill,  unthinking  banter. 
Tell  him  —  What  is  there  that  you  do  not  dare? 

Your  sun-god  is  a  potent  old  enchanter. 

How  many  thousand  half -believing  years 
Have  seen  him  fashion  winter  into  May, 

You  know,  glad  birds ;  you  have  no  mind  for  fears ; 
This  charm  he  makes  is  far  too  soon  away 

To  give  you  time  for  introspective  mourning ; 

You  will  not  heed  these  steeple-cries  of  warning, 

Or  turn  from  life  to  penitence  and  tears. 

Gay  chatterers  among  new-perfect  boughs, 
Chanters  of  nonsense  more  divine  than  truth, 

Festive  philosophers,  whose  creed  allows 
No  cloud  to  fall  upon  the  joy  of  youth, 

83 


You  have  well  answered  him ;  his  strident  gloom, 
His  ominous  hints  of  judgment  and  the  tomb 
Are  silent  now.     Tell  once  again  your  vows: 

Repeat  your  constancy  to  foaming  trees 
Flinging  white  surf  of  blossoms  to  the  sky; 

Swear  you  will  love  that  vagabond,  the  breeze. 
When  you  go  drifting  with  him  by  and  by 

Into  another  summer,  where  the  net 

Of  winter  lays  no  snare  for  happy  things, 
You  will  forget  this  day  of  songs  and  wings, 

But,  birds,  be  sure  that  I  shall  not  forget. 


THOMAS  KENNEDY 


LATE  GUEST 

Half  luminous,  and  dripping  phosphorescent  flashes, 
Night  slips  in  fragrant  and  breathless  out  of  the  rain. 

Down  the  black-mirrored  way,  a  street  car  clangs  and  crashes ; 
New  leaves  shape  wavering  silhouettes  on  the  dark  pane. 

Voices  and  footsteps  echo,  and  fade  in  laughter; 

Her  smile  is  a  pale  miracle  in  the  gloom. 
I  turn  my  eyes  from  Sleep,  to  follow  after 

Her  slim,  gray  silence,  flitting  about  the  room. 

—  THOMAS  KENNEDY 


85 


THE  DIVER 

I  have  plunged  into  life,  0  God, 

As  a  diver  into  the  sea, 
Knowing  and  heeding  naught 

Save  thine  old  command  to  me 
To  go  and  seek  for  thy  pearl, 

Hidden  wherever  it  be. 

And  the  waters  are  in  my  eyes; 

They  clutch  at  my  straining  breath ; 
They  beat  in  my  ears;  yet,  "Seek!" 

My  heart  still  whispereth, 
And  I  grope,  and  forbear  to  call 

On  the  easy  rescuer,  Death. 

For  thy  pearl  must  be  here  in  the  sands, 

If  ever  a  warrant  there  be 
For  that  old  command  of  thine 

To  plunge  into  life  and  see. 
So  I  search,  for  I  trust  in  thy  truth, 

0  thou  Lord  of  the  Truth,  and  of  me. 

—  LILY  A.  LONG 


86 


THE  SINGING  PLACE 

Cold  may  lie  the  day, 

And  bare  of  grace; 
At  night  I  slip  away 

To  the  Singing  Place. 
A  border  of  mist  and  doubt 

Before  the  gate, 
And  the  Dancing  Stars  grow  still 

As  hushed  I  wait. 
Then  faint  and  far  away 

I  catch  the  beat 
In  broken  rhythm  and  rhyme 

Of  joyous  feet, — 
Lifting  waves  of  sound 

That  will  rise  and  swell, 
(If  the  prying  eyes  of  thought 

Break  not  the  spell,) 
Rise  and  swell  and  retreat 

And  fall  and  flee, 
As  over  the  edge  of  sleep 

They  beckon  me. 
And  I  wait  as  the  seaweed  waits 

For  the  lifting  tide ; 
To  ask  would  be  to  awake,  — 

To  be  denied. 
I  cloud  my  eyes  in  the  mist 

That  veils  the  hem,  — 
And  then  with  a  rush  I  am  past, 

I  am  Theirs,  and  of  Them ! 
And  the  pulsing  chant  swells  up 

To  touch  the  sky, 
And  the  song  is  joy,  is  life, 

87 


And  the  song  am  I ! 
The  thunderous  music  peals 

Around,  o'erhead, — - 
The  dead  would  awake  to  hear 

If  there  were  dead; 
But  the  life  of  the  throbbing  Sun 

Is  in  the  song, 
And  we  weave  the  world  anew, 

And  the  Singing  Throng 
Fills  every  corner  of  space — 

Over  the  edge  of  sleep 

I  bring  but  a  trace 
Of  the  chants  that  pulse  and  sweep 

In  the  Singing  Place. 


—  LILY  A.  LONG 


88 


THE  ETERNAL 

The  fire  our  love  has  kindled  still  will  burn 
Upon  the  glowing  hearthstone  of  the  world 

After  our  own  bright  ingle-embers  turn 
To  ashen  atoms  on  the  four  winds  whirled. 

The  tenderness  and  trust  you  gave  to  me, 
My  glad  renunciations  for  your  sake, 

Will  comfort  many  a  lone  heart's  agony 
In  far-off  midnights  when  grim  ghosts  awake. 

Because  of  lovelight  in  your  brooding  eyes 
The  stars  will  glisten  with  a  softer  flame, 

And  in  some  distant  April's  minstrelsies 
My  lips  will  still  be  whispering  your  name. 

For  we  are  heirs  of  raptures  Petrarch  knew 
And  hopes  of  Rachel  by  the  Haran  stream; 

Because  of  faithful  Browning  you  are  true, 
My  joys  are  deeper  for  Francesca's  dream. 

In  summer  evenings  you  have  wondered  why 
The  scent  of  honeysuckle  stirred  my  tears  — 

I  knew  a  sweet  regret  came  drifting  by 
From  some  sad  princess  in  forgotten  years. 

The  tender  grief  of  Heloise  is  calling 

Through  the  lorn  lyrics  of  the  mourning  doves, 

And  every  autumn  wasted  leaves  are  falling 
Stained  with  the  fervor  of  immortal  loves. 

All  blest  emotions  of  the  past  are  ours, 
The  future  will  be  fragrant  with  our  faith, 

Our  love  will  bloom  again  in  fadeless  flowers 
Beyond  the  somber  barriers  of  death. 

—  LUCIA  CLARK  MARKHAM 

89 


MIDNIGHT 

In  the  deep  hush  of  night  the  old  house  wakes, 

Returning  footsteps  steal  across  the  floor, 

Softly  I  hear  the  hinges  of  the  door 
Creak  at  an  unseen  touch ;  the  silence  quakes 
With  stealthy  rustlings  that  a  silk  gown  makes, 

Low  whispers  and  a  sleepy  baby's  cry, 

A  stifled  laugh,  a  moan,  a  lullaby, 
And  faint  forgotten  sighs  and  old  heart-aches. 

Some  shadowy  presence  lingers  in  the  room, 
Ghost  of  a  dream,  wraith  of  a  young  despair  ; 

A  glint  of  silver  breaks  the  brooding  gloom  — 
Ah,  who  is  leaning  poised  upon  the  stair 
With  orange-blossoms  dropping  from  her  hair 

And  in  her  eyes  shades  of  oncoming  doom? 

—  LUCIA  CLARK  MAEKHAM 


90 


THE  ROSES  OF  PIERIA 

"Because  thou  hast  no  share  in  the  roses  of  Pieria,  thou 
shalt  go  to  and  fro,  unnoticed,  in  the  House  of  Hades,  flitting 
among  the  dusky  dead."  —  SAPPHO. 

The  sad  day  walks  with  ivory  forehead  bared 
Into  the  gray  glades  of  oblivion; 

Where  once  our  vesper  star  in  splendor  fared 
The  last  wan  hour  beyond  the  brink  has  gone, 
But  we  who  face  an  undiscovered  dawn 

The  Roses  of  Pieria  have  shared. 

Somewhere  new-leaved  are  all  the  blighted  boughs, 
Retinted  the  frail  petals  summer  shed, 

No  bird  is  lost  that  sang  his  mating- vows, 

No  wisp  of  cloud  that  o  'er  the  mountains  sped  — 
We  shall  not  stray  among  the  dusky  dead 

Nor  wait,  unhonored,  in  Aides'  House. 

It  is  enough  to  gain  the  Towers  of  Morn 
Where  all  the  lost  immortals  keep  the  tryst, 

To  be  in  wistful  violets  reborn 
And  sing  again  when  autumn  winds  are  whist  — 
We  who  are  swept  into  the  stygian  mist 

The  Roses  of  Pieria  have  worn. 

—  LUCIA  CLARK  MARKHAM 


91 


BLUEBELLS 

Tonight  from  deeps  of  loneliness  I  wake  in  wistful  wonder 
To  a  sudden  sense  of  brightness,  an  immanence  of  blue  — 

O  are  there  bluebells  swaying  in  a  shadowy  coppice  yonder, 
Shriven  with  the  dawning  and  the  dew  ? 

For  little  silver  echoes  are  all  about  me  ringing, 
A  crystal  chime  of  waters  where  a  wayward  brooklet  strays, 

Faint  robin-trills  and  dove-calls  and  happy  children's  singing 
And  merriment  of  long-forgotten  Mays. 

And  then  my  heart  remembers  a  shady  reach  of  wildwood 
Sweet  with  bloom  and  innocence,  with  joy  of  bird  and  stream 

Where  bluebells  rang  their  fragrant  chimes  in  sunny  springs 

of  childhood 
Calling  me  to  fairyland  and  dream. 

And  so  I  know  across  the  years  that  disenchant  and  harden, 
Through   midnight's   alien  silence   and  the   black  wind's 

mockery, 

Down  from  some  paradisal  glade,  some  green,  immortal  gar 
den 
The  souls  of  bluebells  come  to  comfort  me. 

—  LUCIA  CLARK  MARKHAM 


92 


EPICEDIUM 
(In  Memory  of  America's  Dead  in  the  Great  War) 

No  more  for  them  shall  evening's  rose  unclose, 
Nor  dawn 's  emblazoned  panoplies  be  spread ; 

Alike,  the  rain's  warm  kiss  and  stabbing  snows, 
Unminded,  fall  upon  each  hallowed  head. 

But  the  'bugles,  as  they  leap  and  wildly  sing, 

Rejoice    .     .     .     remembering. 

The  guns'  mad  music  their  young  ears  have  known  — 
"War's  lullabies  that  moaned  on  Flanders  plain; 

Tonight  the  wind  walks  on  them,  still  as  stone, 
Where  they  lie  huddled  close  as  riven  grain. 

But  the  drums,  reverberating,  proudly  roll  — 

They  love  a  soldier's  soul! 

With  arms  outflung  and  eyes  that  laughed  at  death, 

They  drank  the  wine  of  sacrifice  and  loss ; 
For  them  a  life-time  spanned  a  burning  breath, 

And  truth  they  visioned,  clean  of  earthly  dross. 
But  the  fifes, —  can  you  not  hear  their  lusty  shriek  f 
They  know,  and  now  they  speak! 

The  lazy  drift  of  cloud,  the  noon-day  hum 

Of  vagrant  bees;  the  lark's  untrammeled  song, 

Shall  gladden  them  no  more,  who  now  lie  dumb 

In  death's  strange  sleep,  yet  once  were  swift  and  strong. 

But  the  bells,  that  to  all  living  listener^  peal, 

With  joy  their  deeds  reveal! 

They  have  given  their  lives,  with  bodies  bruised  and  broken, 
Upon  their  country's  altar  they  have  bled; 


93 


They  have  left,  as  priceless  heritage,  a  token 

That  honor  lives  forever  with  the  dead. 
And  the  bugles,  as  their  rich  notes  rise  cmd  fall  — 
They  answer    .     .     .    knowing  all. 


—  J.  CORSON  MILLER 


94 


ELEMENTALS 

Elena  and  Mary  went  down  the  lane ; 

Both  were  questing,  for  both  were  young. 
Mary's  hope  was  none  so  plain, 

But  Elena's  was  light  on  her  tongue. 

"I  go,"  said  Elena,  "to  preach  and  pose; 

To  teach  my  brothers  the  worth  of  me. ' ' 
But  Mary's  silent  mouth  was  a  rose 

Scented  with  kisses  to  be. 

Elena  has  won  what  she  went  to  get; 

Famed  and  laureled  she  comes  again, 
Smiling  as  Mary  smiles,  and  yet  — 

Mary  comes  suckling  sons  of  men. 

—  FANNY  HODGES  NEWMAN 


95 


THE  TAVERN  GUEST 

''Bring  out  the  full  decanter, 

Fate,  goodwife; 

Just  as  it  comes  I'll  have  it, 

Sweet  or  gall; 

Down  to  the  lees,  the  red  lees, 

Pour  me  life. 

My  heart  will  more  than  hold  it, 

Give  me  all!" 


—  FANNY  HODGES  NEWMAN 


96 


THE  BEDBIRD 

Animated,  flashing,  flame  of  scarlet, 

Teasing,  tantalizing  madcap  varlet, 

Glooming,  glinting  through  the  boughs, 

Making,  breaking  lover's  vows; 

Dashing  leader  of  the  choir, 

Standing  on  the  topmost. spire, 

Scintillating  song  and  fire, 

Calls  me :  Come  up  —  come  up  —  higher,  higher,  higher! 

Daytime  meteor  trailing  light, 

Like  a  shooting  star  at  night  — 

Just  a  moment  of  delight, 

Followed  by  a  mad  desire ; 

But  the  flaming  flash  of  scarlet, 

Tantalizing  madcap  varlet, 

Hiding  from  my  aching  sight  — 

This  time  just  a  little  nigher  — 

Laughing  from  his  leafy  height, 

Mocks  me :  Come  up  —  come  up  —  higher,  higher,  higher! 

—  COTTON  NOE 


97 


TO  THE  MOCKING  BIRD 

Whence  is  thy  song, 
Voluptuous  soul  of  the  amorous  South  ? 
Oh !  whence  the  wind,  the  rain,  the  drouth ; 
The  dews  of  eve ;  the  mists  of  morn  ; 
The  bloom  of  rose ;  the  thistle 's  thorn ; 
Whence  light  of  love ;  whence  dark  of  scorn ; 
Whence  joy ;  whence  grief ;  Death,  born  of  wrong  — 
Ah !  whence  is  life  ten-thousand  passions  throng  ?  — 
Thence  is  thy  song ! 

Thou  singest  the  rage  of  jealous  Moor, 

The  passionate  love  of  Juliet ; 

Thy  villainous  art  can  weave  a  net 

With  shreds  of  song,  that  never  yet 
Hath  lover  escaped,  however  noble  and  pure. 

Ophelia's  broken  heart  is  thine, 
And  Desdemona's,  true  and  good; 
Thou  paintest  the  damned  spot  of  blood 

That  will  not  out  in  stain  or  line ! 
Oh  Lear !    Oh  Fool !    Oh  Witch,  Macbeth ! 
And  wondrous  Hamlet  in  a  breath ! 

Who  knows  thy  heart  ?  thy  song  ?  thy  words  ? 

Thou  Shakespeare  in  the  realm  of  birds! 

—  COTTON  NOE 


THE  GOLDEN  FLEECE 

Plays  horseshoes  at  the  crossroads  shop, 
And  hunts  almost  all  night ; 

Just  lets  the  ragweeds  take  his  crop 
And  living  out  of  sight! 

The  market  means  the  same  to  him 

When  brogans  sell  at  five, 
And  beefsteak's  on  the  new  moon's  rim, 

But  honey  in  the  hive! 

Ginseng  is  strung  in  golden  rows 
From  joist  and  puncheon  floor; 

And  hides  of  twenty  kinds  repose 
On  barn  and  cabin  door. 

A  coonskin  brings  ten  savings  stamps, 

A  mink,  a  baby  bond; 
Molasses  in  the  sugar  camps, 

And  bullfrogs  in  the  pond ! 

The  ban  is  off  on  possum  meat 
With  wildgrapes  everywhere; 

Let  Wall  Street  buy  four-dollar  wheat, 
For  what  does  Jason  care  ? 


—  COTTON  NOE 


99 


PKO  PATEIA 

Tip  Sams  had  twins 

And  a  razor-backed  sow, 
Five  dogs  and  a  mule 

And  an  old  roan  cow ; 
A  bone-spavined  filly 

And  a  one-room  house, 
And  a  little  wrinkled  woman 

Just  as  meek  as  a  mouse. 
Old  Tip  raised  tobacco 

And  he  trafficked  in  skins, 
For  he  had  seven  sons 

In  addition  to  the  twins, 
And  every  mother's  son, 

And  the  little  mammy,  Jude, 
Smoked  a  pipe  all  day 

And  the  twins  both  chewed. 
But  Tip  kept  a-digging 

And  he  never  lost  heart, 
For  the  dogs  hunted  rabbits 

And  they  caught  a  right  smart ; 
And  the  bone-spavined  filly 

And  the  mule  pulled  a  plow, 
And  they  lived  off  the  givings 

Of  the  old  roan  cow, 
And  the  acorn-fattened  farrow 

Of  the  razor-back  sow. 
But  here  a  chapter  closes 

Of  my  little  romance, 
For  the  seven  sons  are  sleeping 

On  the  battlefields  of  France  ; 

100 


But  their  daddy  grows  tobacco 

And  trafficks  still  in  skins, 
And  the  little  wrinkled  mammy 

Has  another  pair  of  twins. 

—  COTTON  NOE 


101 


THAT'S  WHAT  THEY  SAY 

(With  apologies  to  an  old  story) 

Two  ancient  spinsters  one  dark  day 

Were  chatting  over  tea. 
"Oh,  Deborah,"  I  heard  one  say, 

"Have  you  seen  Frances  Lee  — 
That's  Margaret  Maple's  little  child? 

The  smallest  babe  that's  ever  been 

Born  into  this  old  world  of  sin." 

"That's  just  what  I  have  heard  them  say; 

But,  Prude,  when  I  was  born, 
They  put  my  head  that  very  day 

In  father's  powder  horn." 
"And  I  do  say;  and  did  you  live?" 

"Well,  now  that's  what  I  hear  them  tell; 

They  say  I  lived,  and  done  right  well." 


—  COTTON  NOE 


102 


INCONSISTENT 

He  hunted  coons  on  Possum  Ridge, 
And  lived  in  Dead  Man's  Flat; 

He  swam  the  river  at  the  bridge, 
And  had  a  dog  called  Bat. 

His  best  milk  cow  was  still  a  calf ; 

His  horse  was  just  a  colt; 
He  leaned  upon  a  broken  staff 

And  always  slipped  his  holt. 

But  now  that  he  is  dead  he  lives, 
Though  living  he  was  dead, 

For  what  he  took,  by  will  he  gives 
To  make  the  starved  well  fed. 


—  COTTON  NOE 


103 


TO  THE  SONNET 

Many  and  loud  the  voices  of  to-day 

That  would,  in  wild  discordance,  drown  thine  own ; 

But  spite  the  raucities  of  trumpets  blown 
By  acolytes  in  the  temple,  and  the  bray 
Of  cosmic  brass,  —  the  riotous  display 

Of  Self  by  those  who  seek  but  Self  to  throne,  — 

Thy  sempiternal  flute-like  undertone 
Still  soars  serene  the  crests  of  song  to  sway. 

Thine  is  the  pagan  power  that  can  reach 
The  fiery  depths  and  crystal  peaks  to  fuse 

A  lyric  fervor  with  a  wisdom  rare; 
Thou  art  the  magic  formula  when  Speech, 
A  penitent  returning  to  the  Muse, 

Bespeaks  the  bard's  devotion  and  despair. 

— -AMEEN  RIHANI 


104 


THE  SONG  OF  SIVA 

'Tis  Night;  all  the  Sirens  are  silent, 

All  the  Vultures  asleep ; 
And  the  horns  of  the  Tempest  are  stirring 

Under  the  Deep ; 
'Tis  Night ;  all  the  snow-burdened  Mountains 

Dream  of  the  Sea, 
And  down  in  the  Wadi  the  River 

Is  calling  to  me. 

'Tis  Night;  all  the  Caves  of  the  Spirit 

Shake  with  desire; 
And  the  Orient  Heaven's  essaying 

Its  lances  of  fire; 
They  hear,  in  the  stillness  that  covers 

The  land  and  the  sea, 
The  River,  in  the  heart  of  the  Wadi, 

Calling  to  me. 

'Tis  Night,  but  a  night  of  great  joyance, 

A  night  of  unrest;  — 
The  night  of  the  birth  of  the  spirit 

Of  the  East  and  the  West; 
And  the  Caves  and  the  Mountains  are  dancing 

On  the  Foam  of  the  Sea, 
For  the  River  inundant  is  calling, 

Calling  to  me. 

—  AMEEN   RIHANI 


105 


ANDALUSIA 


ALCAZAR 

There  was  a  rhapsody  in  all  her  moods, 

A  child-like  grace,  a  passion  unrestrained ; 

Her  throne,  which  bard  and  saki  shared,  was  stained 
With  virgin  wine  as  with  the  blood  of  feuds ; 
And  in  her  lyric-woven  interludes, 

Epitomizing  destiny  and  time, 

Her  spirit,  hid  in  opalescent  rhyme, 
The  shades  of  melancholy  still  eludes. 

Where'er  she  trod,  the  rose  and  bulbul  meet; 

Where'er  she  revelled,  gardens  ever  blow; 
Where'er  she  danced,  the  henna  of  her  feet 

Yet  lends  a  lustre  to  the  poppy's  glow;  — 
Arabia,  dark-eyed,  light-hearted,  fair, 
Is  but  a  flower  in  Andalusia's  hair. 

II 

ALHAMBRA 

Gods  of  the  silence,  still  remembering 

The  dying  echoes  of  her  lute,  bemoan, 

In  canticles  of  golden  monotone, 
Her  Orient  splendor  too  soon  vanishing ; 
And  while  lions  guard  her  courts,  grey  eagles  wing 

Around  her  turquoise  domes,  and  seedlings  blown 
From  distant  lands  to  her  hushed  fountains  cling, 

Yea,  and  the  sun  himself  sits  in  her  throne. 

Time,  once  her  vassal,  lingers  near  the  streams 
That  woo  the  shadows  of  her  crumbling  walls, 


106 


And,  musing  of  Alhambra  's  glory,  dreams 

Of  elegance  and  power  in  Myrtle  Halls ;  — 
Arabia,  once  counted  of  the  strong, 
Is  but  a  sigh  in  Andalusia's  song. 

Ill 

THE  MOSQUE 

In  the  bewildering  grove  of  colonnades, 
Once  brilliant  with  a  flood  of  saffron  light, 
Poured  from  ten  thousand  lanterns  day  and  night, 

Her  memory,  like  spikenard  in  the  glades 

Of  distant  Ind  or  Yemen,  never  fades; 
And  her  devotion,  though  the  ages  blight 
The  mystic  bloom  of  her  divine  delight, 

Still  casts  on  alien  altars  longing  shades. 

But  through  the  mihrabs  which  the  humble  hand 
Of  genius  wrought,  o'er  marbles  hollowed  deep 

By  knees  that  only  Piety  could  command, 
I  see  Oblivion  coming  forth  to  reap;  — 

Arabia,  in  Allah's  chaplet  strung, 

Is  but  a  word  on  Andalusia's  tongue. 

IV 

AL-ZAHRA 

Not  with  the  Orient  glamor  of  her  pleasures, 
Nor  her  fond  rhapsodies  of  prayer  or  song 
Could  she  her  sovereign  reign  a  day  prolong ; 

Not  in  the  things  of  beauty  that  man  measures 

By  the  variable  humor  of  his  leisures, 
Or  by  the  credibilities  that  change 
From  faith  to  fantasy  to  rumor  strange, 

Was  she  the  mistress  of  immortal  treasures. 

107 


But  when  the  holy  shrine  Europa  sought, 
Herself  of  sin  and  witchcraft  to  assoil, 

The  sovereigns  of  Al-Zahra  maxims  wrought 
And  Averroes  burned  his  midnight  oil;  — 

Arabia,  the  bearer  of  the  light, 

Still  sparkles  in  the  diadem  of  Night. 


—  AMEEN  RIHANI 


108 


LASSITUDE 

After  the  evening's  play, 
The  lights  and  smiling  faces; 

After  sweet  talk  and  gay 
Movement  in  joyous  places, 

J  put  off  my  happy  mood; 

Sit  staring  at  the  floor, 
And  in  creeps  lassitude 

Like  water  under  the  door. 


—  EGBERT  J.  ROE 


109 


IMMORTALITY 

I  am  no  brooder  on  death. 

No  calculator  as  to  what  I  shall  lose 

Or  what  gain  by  it. 

But  this  I  knew  once, 

That  day  when  my  foot  slipped 

While  making  fast  the  foretopsail 

And  I  clung  in  space: 

My  essence  has  impregnated  the  world, 

Modified  it,  leavened  it. 

What  you  see,  dies, 

But  the  essential  ME 

Is  everlasting; 

Straining  through  minds 

To  eternity. 

—  ROBERT  J.  ROE 


110 


THE  VANITY  BOX 

She  comes  to  it  in  hope  and  half  in  longing, 
Wearied  and  pale,  stained  with  her  labor's  soil; 

That  magic  box  brings  happy  visions  thronging 
And  hides  her  marks  of  toil. 

This  moment  in  her  day  is  made  of  gold  — 
Forgetting  grim  machine  and  subway  crush, 

She  tries  to  gain  again  the  youth  she  sold, 
With  a  poor,  painted  blush. 

Poor  child,  she  does  not  see  the  mirror's  truth, 
The  haggard  lines,  the  hollowed  cheeks  and  eyes, 

Forgetting  all  but  whisperings  of  youth, 
She  heeds  the  precious  lies. 

Though  beauty's  heritage  is  not  for  you, 
Go  take  your  harmless  little  slice  of  living  — 

An  hour  of  vanities,  though  all  untrue, 
That  does  not  need  forgiving. 

—  JOSEPH  SCHRANK 


111 


HUNTER'S  MONOTONE 

The  lake  is  dead. 

And  through  the  haze  around  and  overhead 

Peers  the  pale  yellow  circle  of  a  sun, 

Making  tri-colored  beams  upon  the  grey-green  scum, 

Shaped  in  interminable  stripes  by  unseen  currents. 

The  lake  is  dead. 

And  not  the  slightest  breath  breaks  through  the  mist 

To  form  a  single  ripple, 

Or  shake  the  yellow  drooping  leaves 

Upon  the  trees  that  seem  but  shadows  of  themselves. 

The  lake  is  dead. 

The  heavy  haze  that  rests  upon  it 

Makes  water,  sky  and  shore  one  with  itself ; 

Though  sometimes  golden  heat-waves  shimmer  through  the 

gray, 
And  white-backed  wrens  make  for  the  trees  from  under  wet, 

black  rocks. 

The  lake  is  dead. 

And  motionless  lie  the  decoys  upon  its  surface, 
Luring  the  solitary  diving  duck  near  shore, 
Whence  the  reports  of  the  rock-hidden  gun 
Boom  like  the  belching  of  the  waters. 

—  JOHAN  J.  SMERTENKO 


112 


KINNIKINNICK 

Green  leaf  and  berry  red 
And  a  breath  of  autumn  breeze, 

And  it's  back  again  in  the  hills  I  am, 
Under  the  silent  trees. 

Wide  ways  and  weary  days 

Stretch  them  out  between, 
But  home  is  near  to  my  heart  tonight 

In  this  spray  of  mountain  green. 

Green  leaf  and  berry  red 

Clustered  under  the  pine ;  — 

Close  as  you  cling  to  your  mountain  home 
Is  clinging  this  heart  of  mine. 


—  LAURA  BELL  SMITH 


113 


"FORSANETHAEC" 

Oft  in  my  schooldays  Pve  stumbled  o'er  many  a  bit  of  learn 
ing; 

Slid  through  many  a  weary  lesson  that  now  has  vanished ; 
Once  in  a  while  a  phrase,  learned  long  ago,  is  returning 

Out  of  the  dusty  limbo  to  which  so  many  are  banished  ; 
Here  is  one  memory  holds,  nor  would  I  consent  to  rob  it : 
"Forsan  et  haec  olim  meminisse  juvabit." 

' '  Even  these  woes,  perchance ' '  —  good  old  Pius  Aeneas ! 

''Even  these  woes,  some  day,  will  amuse  us  in  the  recalling." 
Today  we  slip  on  the  ice  and  the  small  boy  chortles  to  see  us ; 

Tomorrow  we're  able  to  grin  at  the  thought  of  our  own 

clumsy  sprawling; 

When  you  are  down  and  out,  say  this,  though  even  you  sob  it : 
"Forsan  et  haec  olim  meminisse  juvabit." 

Life  brings  us  many  a  gift,  and  some  are  good  and  some  bad 

ones; 

Some  are  bitter  as  aloes  and  some  are  sweeter  than  honey; 

The  fault  is  ours,  no  less,  if  we  join  the  plaints  of  the  sad  ones. 

Time  tells  which  ills  bring  us  good  and  which  turn  out  to 

be  funny. 

Time  has  his  own  little  joke,  and  this  of  all  sting  can  rob  it : 
"Forsan  et  haec  olim  meminisse  juvabit." 

—  LAURA  BELL  SMITH 


114 


PALSTAFF 

Sir  John,  that  loved  the  tankard  and  the  frail, 
Fat  rascal  that  you  were,  upon  my  word, 
For  all  your  frantic  follies  and  absurd 

Adventures,  Gad !  I  love  you  as  good  ale. 

Nay,  John,  it  is  because  of  them,  I  vow, 

I  love  you  most.     Od's  bodikins  and  S 'death! 
You  would  have  wrung  a  chuckle  from  Macbeth 

Had  Master  Will  but  cast  you  right  enow. 

And  that  Blue  Boar  which  Master  Irving  sought 
And  failed  to  find ;  I  find  it  frequently : 
And  Mistress  Page  and  Mistress  Ford  —  ah  me! 

The  deeds,  good  John,  that  you  and  I  have  wrought. 
Yet  two  plays  only  know  your  jocund  bawl.     .     ,  , 
Dear  Jack !  I  would  that  you  were  in  them  all ! 

—  VINCENT  STARRETT 


115 


PICKWICK 

Immortal  name,  and  thrice  immortal  man! 

Your  hand,  Sir,  o'er  the  board,  and  o'er  the  years. 

God  bless  your  spectacles,  your  eyes,  your  ears, 
Your  gaiters,  and  your  crazy  caravan ! 
You  draw  my  laughter,  Sir,  as  few  men  can, 

And  —  Dash  it  all !  —  sometimes  you  tempt  my  tears. 

Once  more  your  hand,  and  (Sam,  cry  two  more  beers!) 
Your  health,  Sir,  and  the  health  of  all  your  clan ! 

So,  some  day,  I  shall  meet  my  oldest  friend, 
And  so,  some  day,  I  '11  greet  him  as  he  drinks : 

'Twill  be  in  some  old  inn,  in  some  quaint  town. 
A  buxom  widow  shall  our  needs  attend, 
A  fire  shall  snap  beside  us,  and  methinks 
I'll  try  to  drink  that  artless  toper  down! 

—  VINCENT  STARRETT 


116 


AMBITION 

Then  to  be  dead  on  plains  of  sonant  glory !  — 
To  kneel,  myself  beside,  with  strangled  breath; 

To  bear  away  the  litter  —  spread  the  story  — 
And  cry  above  the  bier  that  shining  death ! 

Mutely  to  stand,  a  multitude  of  mourners, 
Head  bared,  and  sombre  eyes  upon  the  road 

Where,  flag-draped,  past  the  deeply-breathing  corners, 
Slowly  I  pass  to  my  strait,  dim  abode. 

To  be  the  banner's  boast,  the  bugle's  sorrow; 

The  volley  o'er  the  mounded  earth,  the  tread 
Of  marching  feet;  the  silence  of  the  morrow, 

When,  with  a  shock,  I  read  that  I  am  dead. 

To  be  the  quill  that  lustres  famous  pages, 

The  hand  that  drives  the  pen,  the  eyes  that  see 

The  worship  and  the  wonder  of  the  ages.     .    . 
To  be  the  grief,  the  joy,  the  mystery! 

—  VINCENT  STARRETT 


117 


TO  A  BABY 

Quaint  little  vampire  of  the  browless  eyes, 
The  pledge  of  passion  and  the  ward  of  pain, 
Back  of  that  level  glance  of  cold  disdain 

Sometimes  I  seem  to  glimpse  a  dark  surmise. 

Under  the  artlessness  of  your  disguise 

You  have  an  air  of  knowing  all  is  vain.     .     . 
And  yet  they  question  if  you  have  a  brain! 

Life  is  indeed  a  curious  enterprise. 

In  the  abyss  of  your  unwinking  gaze 
All  knowledge  and  all  mystery  abide : 

You  are  so  lately  from  the  rainbow  hurled. 
And  yet,  how  —  unaccustomed  to  our  ways  — 
Your  searching,  helpless  lips  grope  far  and  wide 
For  the  glad  breast  that  nourishes  the  world ! 

—  VINCENT  STARRETT 


118 


CAPTIVE  GODDESSES 

They  sell  their  jewels  in  the  market  place, 

The  little  tawdry  sisterhood  of  sin, 

With  smiles  of  wood,  with  words  unkempt  and  thin, 
Yet  with  an  echo  of  a  former  grace 
That  lends  a  touch  of  splendor  to  each  face.     .     . 

To  the  harsh  scraping  of  a  violin, 

I  watch  their  frenzied  bodies  whirl  and  spin 
In  an  unreal,  delirious  embrace. 

I  have  no  mind  to  dance,  no  heart  to  sing ; 
These  curious  puppets  hold  no  lure  for  me; 
Yet  am  I  unrevolted  of  the  scene.     .,  V 
Here  is  a  mistress  for  a  fallen  king, 
Yonder  a  sister  of  Persephone, 
And  here  a  twin  to  the  sad  Magdalene. 

—  VINCENT  STARRETT 


119 


RETURN 

In  rooms  long  stranger  to  my  tread 

My  soul  knelt  down  and  wept ; 
The  gray  walls  whispered  of  the  dead, 

The  sad-eyed  windows  slept: 

And  memories  of  perished  years 

Were  all  that  bade  me  stay.     . 
And  those  I  kissed  with  sudden  tears, 

And  those  I  bore  away. 

—  VINCENT  STAREETT 


120 


DREAMER 

He  was  dismayed  by  life's  harsh  waking  view; 

Only  in  dreams  he  found  escape  from  dread : 
And  so  he  laid  him  down  to  sleep,  and  drew 

The  coverlet  of  water  o'er  his  head. 

Then,  as  he  slept,  a  murmur  fled  away : 

" Genius!"  they  whispered,  wishing  he  might  rise, 

And  place  upon  his  brow  the  wreath  of  bay.     .     . 
Poor  dreamer,  with  the  dead,  clairvoyant  eyes! 

—  VINCENT  STARRETT 


121 


POE'S  GRAVESTONE 

".  .  .  .  old  friends  and  the  school  children  of  Richmond 
....  asked  those  great  men  of  Boston  who  had  been  Poe's 
contemporaries  ....  to  join  in  commemorating  him.  These 
invitations  were  either  ignored  or  they  were  not  accepted 
....  Lowell  ....  Bryant  ....  Whittier  ....  Longfel 
low  ...  ." 

The  very  tomb  shall  cover  not  the  shame 

Of  those  that  would  have  bound  thy  wings  of  light ! 
Toiling  for  Beauty  in  the  quiet  night, 

Little  to  thee  were  primacy  or  name; 

But  now  thy  star  is  found  a  holy  flame 
In  heavens  unpermitted  to  their  flight — 
Unseen  by  those  who  have  not  in  their  sight 

The  slowly  guttering  candles  of  their  fame. 

Puritanism's  grey  and  icy  ooze 

Was  rheum  in  those  inexorable  eyes, 

That  would  not  see  wherein  thy  greatness  stood. 
The  meager  honor  that  they  dared  refuse 
Was  earth's,  O  thou  that  followed  to  the  skies 
Beauty,  whose  final  goal  is  human  good ! 

— GEORGE  STERLING 


122 


SONNETS  BY  THE  NIGHT-SEA 

I. 

The  wind  of  night  is  like  an  ocean's  ghost. 

The  deep  is  greatly  troubled.     I,  alone, 

See  the  wave  shattered  and  the  wave-crest  thrown 
Where  pine  and  cypress  hold  their  ancient  post. 
The  sounds  of  war,  the  trampling  of  a  host, 

Over  the  borders  of  the  world  are  blown ; 

The  feet  of  armies  deathless  and  unknown 
Halt,  baffled,  at  the  ramparts  of  the  coast. 

Yea!  and  the  Deep  is  troubled!     In  this  heart 
Are  voices  of  a  far  and  shadowy  Sea, 

Above  whose  wastes  no  lamp  of  earth  shall  gleam. 
Farewells  are  spoken  and  the  ships  depart 
For  that  horizon  and  its  mystery, 

Whose  stars  tell  not  if  life,  or  death,  is  dream. 

II. 

The  wind  of  night  is  mighty  on  the  deep  — 
A  presence  haunting  sea  and  land  again. 
That  wind  upon  the  watery  waste  hath  been; 

That  wind  upon  the  desert  soon  shall  sweep. 

0  vast  and  mournful  spirit,  wherefore  keep 
Thy  vigil  at  the  fleeting  homes  of  men, 
Who  need  no  voice  of  thine  to  tell  them  when 

Is  come  the  hour  to  labor  or  to  sleep? 

From  waste  to  waste  thou  goest,  and  art  dumb 
Before  the  morning.     Patient  in  her  tree 

The  bird  awaits  until  thy  strength  hath  passed, 


123 


Forgetting  darkness  when  the  day  is  come. 
With  other  tidings  hast  thou  burdened  me, 
Whom  desolations  harbor  at  the  last. 


— GEORGE  STERLING 


124 


ATTHAN  DANCES 

The  silver  of  the  lyre 

Cries,  and  thy  silver  feet 

Like  living  flowers  repeat 
Thy  body's  silver  fire. 

What  scents  without  a  name 

Within  thy  tresses  hide? 

What  perfect  roses  died 
To  give  thy  mouth  its  flame? 

Thy  hands,  uplifting,  float 

More  delicate  than  Love's. 

Thy  breasts  are  two  white  doves 
Whose  moan  is  in  thy  throat. 

As  lyre  and  cithern  swoon, 

Thou  lingerest,  in  thy  pace 

The  panther's  gift  of  grace, 
Who  glides  below  the  moon. 

0  linger  where  I  sigh 
Above  the  golden  wine, 
And  touch  thy  mouth  to  mine — 

A  scarlet  butterfly. 

— GEORGE  STERLING 


125 


THE  PEASANT'S  PRAYER 

The  roan  cow  rests  content  under  the  trees 
That  shade  the  lane's  end.     Nearer,  bumble-bees 
With  golden  thighs  grip  the  sweet  flowers 
Of  the  sun-lighted  bridal-wreath.     No  showers 
Have  laid  the  dry  loam,  and  dust  veils 
The  dragman's  team  as  wearily  it  trails 
The  warping  frame  over  the  ocher  ground 
Sloping  to  the  blue  marsh-edge.     The  main  sound 
A  fitful  creaking  of  the  half -shadowed  mill 
That  rests  from  labor,  like  a  true  bard,  until 
Some  god's  good  wind  comes  on  to  bid  it  move. 
No  song  but  the  faint  cooing  of  a  dove 
Lonely  on  the  barn-ridge,  mourning  a  mate. 

Here,  in  my  tired  heart,  early  and  late, 
Shadows,  dim  lights,  sounds  of  forgotten  years, 
Old  sorrow-songs  from  memory  of  tears. 
I  have  not  known  great  love  —  the  less  to  grieve  — 
Nor  hated  aught  but  to  its  course  must  cleave. 
To  books  of  wisdom,  mirth  and  things  of  beauty 
I  could  not  give  the  hour  forepledged  to  Duty 
Calling  on  busy  hands.     Ill  fares  the  soul. 

Around  my  life  of  labor  scroll  on  scroll 

Of  wonders  I  cannot  read,  music  unheard 

By  my  dull  ears.     How  understand  the  word 

The  night-stars  speak  and  language  of  the  winds  ? 

Grass  is  pasture;  wheat,  bread.     To  other  minds 

Symbols  of  God  —  mystery  divinely  sweet. 

To  us  —  man,  cow  or  bee  —  but  straw  and  meat. 


126 


Mine  the  gray  toil;  all  fair  illusion  yours. 

O,  grant  me,  yet,  one  dream  —  one  that  secures 

My  childish  hope  of  comfort  in  the  grave 

And  love  beyond !     This  gone,  what  do  we  peasants  save  ? 

—  IVAN  SWIFT 


127 


ASSOCIATION 

Beyond  the  shore-guard  pines  the  beach  of  sand 
Stretched  off  as  warm  and  yielding  as  your  hand 
That  northern  summers  past  had  laid  in  mine. 
And  yet  the  place  had  set  no  moving  sign 
Within  my  heart  —  too  full  of  you  for  words, 
Too  glad  for  tears,  too  wrapt  to  hear  the  chords 
Of  Nature's  playing.     So  I  said  no  spell 
Attached  to  this  of  import  to  compel 
My  song ;  though  we  had  lived  a  thousand  days 
And  grown  to  comradeship  and  mutual  ways 
Within  its  keeping.     Thus  when  love  was  young 
And  you  were  by  my  side  no  song  was  sung, 
In  joy  and  fulsome  praise  I  had  not  thought 
Upon  the  frequent  scene  —  I  had  not  caught 
Its  inward  meaning,  as  when  oft  alone 
I  found  some  mystic  message  in  a  stone. 
The  silent  shade  and  your  sweet  gladness  — 
These  were  enough.     Somehow  the  poet-madness 
Comes  not  of  soft  content  and  troths  unbroken, 
And  of  such  perfect  peace  no  words  are  spoken. 

Today  I  am  alone,  for  my  offense  — 
Alone  and  penitent  and  wondering  whence 
This  golden  light  and  gold-green  of  the  lake, 
The  waves'  dull  symphony  and  dunes  awake 
With  laughing  spirits  of  the  happy  dead 
Whose  cast-off  pains  our  birth  inherited. 
The  dancing  trees  lean  down  with  precious  gifts 
Of  perfume.     Every  tiny  plant  uplifts 
Its  tendrils  to  my  touch  and  points  to  skies 
Of  flowing  opal  where  the  free  gull  flies 


128 


To  meet  his  mate  beyond  some  blessed  isle. 
Would  I,  as  he,  to  mine  might  fly  the  while, 
Or  she  to  me  —  yea,  thou  to  me,  and  here, 
Where  days  that  are  departed  are  twice  dear 
And  every  leaf  and  twig  bears  memories 
Like  faint,  far  bells  across  the  midnight  seas ! 

Alone  I  wait  I  know  not  what  strange  word : 
Alone  I  pray  I  know  not  what  vague  sign! 
But  where  we  met  and  your  sweet  voice  was  heard 
Has  been  God 's  temple  —  and  shall  be  my  shrine ! 

—  IVAN  SWIFT 


129 


QUESTION 

When  I  am  old  and  you  are  old 

And  passion's  fires  are  burned  to  embers 

And  life  is  as  a  tale  that's  told 

And  only  worth  what  Love  remembers, 

If  we  should  meet,  two  quiet  folk, 
And  change  opinions  of  the  weather, 

Could  any  glance  or  word  provoke 
The  heart  and  eyes  to  speak  together? 

The  heart  benumbed  with  so  much  ache, 
The  eyes  bedimmed  with  so  much  crying  — 

Do  buds  long  blighted  ever  break 
To  green  the  vine  already  dying  ? 

When  you  are  dead  and  I  am  dead, 
Our  faces  lost,  our  names  unspoken, 

Shall  then  the  mystery  be  read? 

Can  heaven  bind  what  earth  has  broken  ? 

Oh,  in  that  farther,  fairer  day 

To  which  the  tides  of  life  are  moving, 

—  So  sweet,  withal,  in  this  poor  clay, 
What  then  must  be  the  joy  of  loving  ? 

—  BUFINA  C.   TOMPKINS 


130 


AT  A  LONDON  TAVERN 
(June,  1493) 

(A  wandering  poet  strolls  in,  sits  down  amid  a  crowd  of 
drinkers  and  says:) 

With  God's  grace,  if  you'll  hear  me,  gentle  lords, 

And  grace  of  His  sweet  Mother,  I  shall  tell 

Of  all  the  wonders  which  I  saw  and  heard 

Not  three  months  since,  when  I  still  was  in  Spain. 

I  would  not  say  the  world  is  round,  my  lords, 

But  stay  a  bit  and  hear  me  to  the  end. 

There  was  a  dreamer,  Messer  Cristoforo 

I  think  is  all  he's  called,  a  Genoese, 

Who  swore  to  king  and  queen  the  world  was  round, 

And  being  round,  the  Indes  could  be  reached 

By  sailing  west.     They  tried  to  laugh  him  down 

But  there  was  in  his  voice  and  in  his  eye 

An  eloquence  and  communicative  fire 

Queen  Isabella  could  not  out  of  mind. 

When  he  had  gone  and  was  half  way  to  France 

She  sent  her  messengers  to  bring  him  back; 

Then  gave  him  ships,  three  caravels;  but  crews, 

That  was  another  matter.     Find  me  men 

To  follow  blindly  where  a  madman  leads! 

By  siege-like  dint  of  bribing  and  cajoling 

He  did  succeed  in  manning  ail  three  ships, 

Scantily,  to  be  sure.    And  what  a  stir, 

What  noise  in  Palos  on  that  August  morning 

At  sailing-time,  for  all  the  town  was  there. 

Shops  and  markets  closed  as  on  a  feast-day. 

Noise,  noise,  color  and  noise  at  first, 

131 


But  when  the  priest  had  closed  his  benediction 

And  they  weighed  anchor  and  the  sails  bent  to, 

The  din  grew  less;  and  farther  off  the  ships 

The  stiller  we  became.    We  gazed  and  in 

The  hush  that  followed  we  could  only  hear 

The  whispered  godspeeds,  prayers  for  safe  return 

Of  friends  and  folks  of  those  abandoned  men. 

Day  followed  listless  day,  and  save  the  kin 

Of  sailors  gone,  we  turned  to  other  thoughts 

Until  the  time  we  reckoned  they  were  due. 

Then  we  would  gather  daily  on  the  wharves 

And  watch  in-coming  ships.     Sail  after  sail 

Loomed  large  with  hope;  but  now  'twas  up  from  Lisbon, 

Another  time  it  might  be  from  the  Loire 

Bringing  in  French  wines.     False  ships,  false  hopes; 

And  folk  began  to  shake  their  sullen  heads, 

And  from  his  pulpit  the  good  padre  told 

How  God  had  chartered  out  what  sea  and  land 

He  granted  men  to  know;  that  they  who  tried 

To  reach  beyond  would  loose  His  mighty  wrath  ; 

That  all  this  round  world  talk  was  blasphemy. 

And  it  was  rumored  that  the  maddened  crews 

Had  mutinied,  thrown  captains  overboard 

And  now  were  pirates  off  the  Barbary  coast. 

Daily  about  the  quay  the  throng  diminished 

Till  finally,  not  one  of  us  would  go, 

Not  one  except  an  old  half-witted  woman 

The  mother  of  the  boatswain  of  the  flagship. 

She,  like  a  sentry  watching  enemies, 

Hallooed  when  any  sail  hove  into  sight, 

And  we  would  scurry  down  to  watch  and  hope. 

But  when  we  were  deceived  a  score  of  times, 


132 


We  came  no  more,  paid  no  more  heed  to  her. 

For  us  those  ships  and  men  were  lost,  lost: 

We  sometimes  doubted  if  they'd  ever  been. 

One  day  in  early  March,  just  in  the  midst 

Of  market-time  old  madre  Josefina, 

With  all  her  years,  came  hobbling  down  the  street 

Waving  her  hands  and  crying  like  a  sergeant 

"Out!  out!  they've  come!"     We  looked  off  casually 

Yet  no  one  stirred  until  the  wine-shop  keeper 

Ventured  that  though  there  was  an  only  ship 

It  did  look  promising.    Folk  soon  assembled 

And  as  the  ship  veered  to  and  cast  its  anchor 

We  made  out  clearly  that  she  was  the  Nina. 

Good  sirs,  'twas  then  you  should  have  heard  the  shouting, 

The  men  on  board  too,  answering  our  vivas ! 

And  when  the  first  of  them  stepped  on  the  landing, 

We  were  like  madmen,   screaming,   weeping,   laughing, 

Kissing  the  crew  and  kissing  one  another. 

Not  one  of  you  but  would  give  half  his  years 

To  see  what  I  saw  then!    And  by  God's  wounds 

I  swear  that  what  I  tell  these  eyes  beheld! 

Each  boatful  of  the  crew  as  they  came  up, 

Brought  some  new  wonder:  there  were  strangers  bronzed 

Like  weathered  copper,  naked,  tall,  and  speechless, 

With  feathers  in  their  hair  and  faces  painted; 

And  there  were  birds,  all  manner  of  strange  birds, 

Some  fiery  red  and  some  with  tails  like  lyres, 

And  strangest  of  all,  some  green  ones  with  hooked  bills 

That  jabbered  Spanish;  plants  and  animals 

The  like  of  which  no  man  has  ever  seen; 

And  then  the  stranger's   arms,   great  bows   and   arrows, 

Arrows  straight  as  they,  as  supple  too 


133 


Their  bows;  and  gold,  vessels  and  cups  of  gold, 

And  hideous  little  gods,  but  all  pure  gold ! 

We,  grown  less  clamorous  then,  had  fallen  back 

To  either  side  to  give  these  strange  things  room. 

We  whispered  or  we  pointed  open-mouthed; 

And  when  at  last  Messer  Cristoforo 

Himself  appeared,  wearing  a  purple  cloak, 

A  white  plume  in  his  hat,  and  in  his  eye 

The  unslaked  fire  we  had  known  before, 

Some  crossed  themselves,  and  some  with  genuflexions 

Approached,   some  touched  some  kissed  his  mantle's  hem. 

Beside  me  I  could  hear  the  padre  murmur 

"Praise  be  to  God!"  and  in  the  eyes  of  others 

Who  dared  not  speak  you  easily  could  have  read: 

' '  He  found  the  Indes !  and  the  world  is  round ! ' ' 

Back  there  in  Paris  those  light-headed  Frenchmen 
W'ould  never  hear  me  through,  but  scoffed  and  laughed 
And  said  that  I  was  drunk  as  all  of  Poland. 
But  you,  my  lords,  you  who  have  heard  my  tale, 
It's  nine  months  since  I've  tasted  English  ale! 

—  ALBERT  EDMUND  TROMBLY 


134 


THE  PAINTING  OF  PAOLO  AND  FRANCESCA 


< « 


He  said  to  me:    'Tomorrow  I  begin 
My  painting  of  Paolo  and  Francesca ; 
And  you  must  pose  with  Beppe.    I  might  use 
Bianca,  but  her  lips  are  much  too  thin, 
And  she  has  nothing  of  the  languid  grace 
That  must  have  been  Francesca 's.' 

1  But  Giulio'-— 

*I  know  ....  the  sitting  will  be  short;  and  though 
He  must  embrace  and  hold  you  mouth  to  mouth, 
It  will  not  be  a  kiss;  where  there's  no  love 
The  lips  lie  cold  and  there  can  be  no  wrong. 
Beppe  will  understand,  for  he 's  my  friend. ' 

I  know  not  why  I  trembled  ....  all  that  night 
My  sleep  was  broken  by  I  know  not  what 
Voices  and  ghastly  nightmares;  and  at  length 
When  I  arose  and  dressed  myself  and  looked 
Into  my  mirror,  it  occurred  to  me: 
'Giulio  will  think  these  hollow  eyes  Francesca  ?s.' 

Finally  Beppe  came,  and  Giulio  said: 
'Lucia  seems  so  much  more  like  the  type 
I  think  of  as  Francesca 's —  mouth  and  eyes  — 
I'll  have  her  pose  with  you  instead  of  Bianca.' 

I  dared  not  look  at  either,  struggling  hard 
To  seem  composed  and  natural;  still  I  felt, 
As  Giulio  placed  us  there,  cold  sweat  upon 
My  brow  and  the  trembling  come  again. 


135 


Giulio  must  have  noticed,  for  he  asked 
If  I  were  cold,  and  said  the  sketch  would  take 
Only  a  moment  more.     My  hands  were  numb, 
But  when  I  felt  the  warm  blood  in  those  hands 
Pulsate  through  mine,  I  trembled  harder  still. 
And  when  I  knew  that  mouth  upon  my  mouth 
I  felt  my  soul  pass  throbbing  from  my  lips. 

That  night  I  could  not  sleep,  and  when  I  heard 

Giulio  breathing  heavily  at  my  side, 

I  rose  and  thought  to  cool  my  feverish  brow 

By  walking  in  the  courtyard.    As  I  passed 

Into  the  studio,  the  rising  moon 

Was  stealing  in,  and  clearly  I  perceived 

The  settle  where  we  sat.    I  stopped.    Nearby 

On  one  of  Giulio 's  easels  lay  a  knife  — 

The  knife  he  used  for  trimming  canvases. 

I  started  —  picked  it  up  —  do  I  know  why  ? 

And  do  I  know  what  happened  then  ?    A  dream ! 

A  fiendish  dream  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  Giulio 's  dead! 

They  call  me  murderess;  but  was  it  right 
To  give  my  body  to  another's  arms? 
Mother  of  God!     I'll  soon  be  in  God's  sight; 
And  yet  I  hove  no  fear;  for  well  I  know 
God  knows  the  fault  was  Giulio 's  and  not  mine." 

—  ALBERT  EDMUND  TROMBLY 


136 


ILLUSION 

We  see  the  night  drift  toward  us  from  the  sky, 

And  know  not  we  are  seeing 
Out  of  the  secret  shadows  of  our  earth 

The  darkness  taking  being. 

We  feel  the  warm  sweet  blowing  summer  rains, 

Nor  care  that  we  are  feeling 
The  tears  of  dead  men  cleansed  of  bitterness 

By  centuries  of  healing. 

We  hear  the  wild  strange  pounding  of  the  sea, 

The  crashing  and  the  breaking, 
And  think  not  that  we  hear  the  sounding  of 

Our  own  graves  in  the  making. 

We  weave  our  webs  of  rainbow  gossamer 

Torn  by  a  germ's  intrusion;  — 
Death  is  the  old  eternal  truth,  and  life 

A  beautiful  illusion. 

—  OSCAR  WILLIAMS 


137 


REVENGE 

I  have  come  out  of  my  grave 

For  my  revenge  upon  death 

Who  bound  me  to  a  wind-swirled,  gnarled  crag, 

And  set  the  stars  picking  at  my  bones 

Like  a  million  tiny  vultures; 

Long,  long  before  Prometheus 

I,  too,  had  stolen  a  fire, 

Greater  than  his! 

But  now  I  have  come  out  of  my  grave 

For  my  revenge  upon  death ;  — 

Out  of  the  curves  of  petals, 

The  curves  of  my  face; 

Out  of  the  caverns  of  the  winds, 

The  little  caverns  of  my  lungs ; 

Out  of  the  sunlight  and  the  moonlight, 

The  glimmer  of  my  eyes; 

Out  of  the  rains  and  snows, 

My  heart's  cataract  of  plunging  flames; 

Out  of  the  tip-toeing  twilight, 

The  hush  of  my  soul;  — 

Oh,  I  have  come  out  of  my  grave, 

For  my  revenge  upon  death, 

For  the  little  revenge  men  call  youth ! 

—  OSCAR  WILLIAMS 


138 


MOOD 

A  sky  filling  with  shadow  as  a  flower  with  rain.     .     . 

A  wind  gray  with  the  secret  moods  of  the  sea.     .     . 
And  the  old  singing  comes  back  again, 

And  the  old  aching  perplexity. 

The  old  questioning  comes  back  once  more 
Asking  the  little  shadows  hiding  in  tears, 

Why  love  cries  in  the  rain  outside  the  door, 
And  beauty  blunders  forever  down  the  years. 

—  OSCAR  WILLIAMS 


139 


THE  CONTRIBUTORS 

BEETHA  GEANT-AVEEY  (Mrs.),  of  Anoka,  Minn.,  is  a  devotee  of 
out-of-door  life.  Though  seldom  appearing  as  a  writer,  she  has  done 
some  beautiful  book  illuminating  and  initialing. 

EOBEET  O.  BALLOT!  was  born  (1892)  and  raised  on  a  farm  twenty- 
five  miles  west  of  Chicago.  Has  been  a  reporter  for  the  Chicago  Ex 
aminer  but  is  now  engaged  in  business.  Served  in  the  World  War. 
Married,  in  1921  to  Vera  K.  Edwardsen  of  Chicago.  Besides  in  Chicago. 

KENDALL  BANNING.  Born  New  York,  September  20,  1879.  A.B. 
Dartmouth  College,  1902  (class  poet).  Managing  editor  System,  1903- 
17.  Managing  editor  Hearst's,  1919-.  World-war  veteran,  major  on 
General  Staff.  Author  numerous  volumes  poetry  and  two  plays.  Con 
tributor  to  magazines.  Member  Players  Club  and  many  literary  and 
dramatic  societies.  Married;  lives  in  New  York  City. 

CHAELES  GEANGEE  BLANDEN.  Born  Marengo,  111.,  January 
19,  1857.  Came  to  Chicago  in  1890.  Author  of  several  books  of  verse, 
the  latest  of  which,  Lyrics,  was  published  by  the  BOOKFELLOWS  under 
one  of  his  half-dozen  pen  names  — "  Laura  Blackburn. "  Member  of 
the  " Cliff  Dwellers,"  Chicago. 

GEOEGE  F.  BUTLEE.  Born  Moravia,  N.  Y.,  March  15,  1857. 
Baldwin's  Academy,  Groton,  N.  Y.,  1874.  Eush  Medical  College,  Chi 
cago,  1889.  Has  practiced  and  taught  for  years  in  and  around  Chicago. 
Medical  director  of  North  Shore  Health  Eesort,  Winnetka,  111.  Sonnets 
of  the  Heart,  1909;  Echoes  of  Petrarch,  1912;  Travail  of  a  Soul,  1914; 
Love  and  Its  Affinities,  1890;  Isle  of  Content,  1907;  Exploits  of  a  Phy 
sician-Detective,  1907;  How  the  Mind  Cures,  1921.  Dr.  Butler  died  in 
June,  1921,  while  this  book  was  going  through  the  press. 

MAEION  M.  BO  YD.  Born  1894  in  Marietta,  Ohio;  graduated  from 
Smith  College  in  1916.  Is  Assistant  in  the  Department  of  English 
Language  at  Western  College,  Oxford,  Ohio. 

140 


JOHN  S.  BROWN  is  the  pen  name  of  a  well  known  BOOKTELLOW. 

STEPHEN  CHALMERS.  Born  Dunoon,  Scotland,  February  29,  1880. 
Educated  Dunoon  Grammar  School.  Married  Louise  A.  Root  of  Brock- 
port,  N.  Y.,  1910.  Newspaper  man.  Has  traveled  extensively  in  West 
Indies  and  South  America  and  has  written  a  number  of  books.  Resi 
dence,  Laguna  Beach,  California. 

JOHN  VANCE  CHENEY.  Born  Groveland,  N.  Y.,  December  29, 
1848.  Educated  at  Geneseo,  N.  Y.  Married.  Practiced  law  in  New 
York,  1875-6.  Librarian,  Free  Public  Library,  San  Francisco,  1887-94; 
Newberry  Library,  Chicago,  1894-1909.  Member  National  Institute  of 
Arts  and  Letters.  Author  of  many  books  of  poems  and  essays.  Wrote 
prize  reply  to  Edwin  Markham's  The  Man  With  the  Hoe.  Lives  in 
San  Diego. 

EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE  of  Cleveland,  Ohio,  was  born  at  Port 
Devon,  Canada,  June  5,  1866.  Married,  1897,  Lilith  Castleberry  of 
Chicago.  Lecturer,  author  and  contributor  to  the  leading  newspapers  and 
magazines.  Among  his  books  are  Impertinent  Poems,  Rhymes  to  be 
Eead  and  Chronicles  of  the  Little  Tot.  He  is  vice  president  for  Ohio 
of  the  Society  of  Midland  Authors. 

HENRY  CORNEAU  DILLER  of  Germantown,  Pa.,  was  born  in 
Philadelphia,  graduated  from  the  University  of  Pennsylvania  in  1903, 
served  as  a  Four-Minute  Man  during  the  War  Period,  has  been  active 
in  better  government  movements  and  is  a  banker  by  profession. 

WENDELL  ERIC  DIXON  of  Chicago,  111.  Born  June  5,  1893,  on  a 
farm  in  Illinois.  Attended  University  of  Chicago.  Served  in  U.  S. 
Army  during  the  War  of  Nations.  Married,  1917,  Marjorie  S.  Howe. 
Is  now  engaged  in  business. 

HENRY  DUMONT.  Born  San  Francisco,  March  17,  1878.  Started 
in  business  at?  the  age  of  13.  At  19  he  joined  forces  with  the  Pacific 
Coast  Borax  Company,  and  came  to  Chicago  in  1908  to  take  command  of 
its  Chicago  office,  which  command  he  still  retains.  Married,  in  1904, 
Eleanor  Larkin  of  Alameda,  Cal.  In  1910,  published  A  Golden  Fancy 
and  Other  Poems.  Residence,  LaGrange,  111. 

BETTY  EARLE,  pen  name  of  writer  in  Nevada,  Missouri  Born, 
1894.  A.B.  degree  from  Missouri  University,  1915.  Connected  with 
University  Extension  Division,  1916-1917.  Army  Student  Nurse  at 

141 


Camp  Greene,  1918.     Teacher  of  English,  1919.     Now  devoting  entire 
time  to  writing. 

CHARLOTTE  EATON.  Born  in  England.  Wife  of  the  late  Wyatt 
Eaton,  American  Artist.  Traveled  and  studied  in  New  York,  Canada, 
and  Europe.  Author  Desire,  1904;  A  Last  Memory  of  E.  L.  S.,  1917; 
The  Enchanted  Sea  Gull,  1916,  in  collaboration  with  Harriett  Bartnett. 
Lives  in  studio  near  the  campus  of  Columbia  University.  Student  of 
classics  and  lover  of  poetic  form. 

CHARLES  FARWELL  EDSON.  Born  San  Francisco,  Cal.  Educat 
ed  in  Illinois;  studied  voice  under  Louis  Gaston  Gottschalk.  Has  been 
a  teacher  of  voice  in  Los  Angeles  since  1899.  Was  one  of  the  founders 
of  the  Gamut  Club;  served  on  the  Municipal  Music  Commission  and  City 
Planning  Committee;  a  founder  and  for  two  years  vice  president  of  the 
Music  Teachers'  Association  of  California.  Married  in  1890,  Katherine 
Philips  of  Kenton,  Ohio.  Was  a  Four-Minute  Man  during  the  Great 
War.  Has  published  several  songs  and  quartettes;  also  two  books  of 
poetry,  San  Francisco,  the  City  of  the  Golden  Gate,  and  Los  Angeles 
from  the  Sierras  to  the  Sea. 

ETHEL  M.  ERICSON.  Born  in  New  York  City  in  1894,  where  she 
still  lives.  Is  a  teacher  of  English  in  Washington  Irving  High  School. 
Was  editor  of  the  college  monthly  and  president  of  the  English  Club  dur 
ing  her  course  in  Hunter  College.  Has  contributed  to  Poets  of  the 
Future. 

WALTER  TAYLOR  FIELD.  Born  February  21,  1861.  Educated 
Chicago  schools  and  Denmark  Academy,  Iowa;  Dartmouth,  two  years; 
Amherst,  two  years,  graduating  in  1883.  Newspaper  and  magazine 
articles.  Author  of  numerous  text  books  for  children.  Resides  in  Chi 
cago,  and  is  treasurer  of  the  Society  of  Midland  Authors. 

FLORENCE  KIPER  FRANK  (Mrs.  Jerome  N.).  Born  Atchison, 
Kansas.  Came  to  Chicago  at  the  age  of  four.  Attended  University  of 
Chicago.  Author  of  The  Jew  to  Jesus  and  Other  Poems;  has  contribut 
ed  poems  and  articles  to  The  Century,  The  Forum,  Poetry,  McClure  's,  The 
Dial,  The  New  Republic,  etc.,  and  has  written  several  short  and  long 
plays  which  have  been  published  and  produced.  Lives  at  Hubbard 
Woods,  111. 

LOUISE  AYRES  GARNETT  (Mrs.  Eugene  H.).  Lives  in  Evanston, 
111.  Has  written  dramas,  songs,  poems,  and  plays  —  her  Forest  Eondo 

142 


was  sung  by  fifteen  hundred  children.  Among  her  works  is  The  Court 
ship,  a  dramatization  of  Longfellow's  Miles  Standish.  Many  of  her 
poems  have  been  published  in  The  Outlook. 

CLIFFORD  FRANKLIN  GESSLER.  Born  Milton  Junction,  Wis., 
1893.  B.A.,  Milton  College,  1916;  M.A.,  University  of  Wisconsin,  1917. 
Taught  English.  Worked  on  newspapers  Milwaukee,  Indianapolis,  Chi 
cago.  Now  engaged  in  newspaper  work  in  Hawaii.  Contributor  to 
The  Nation,  Contemporary  Verse,  Grinnell  Review,  etc. 

ELEANOR  HAMMOND  was  born  in  California,  of  English-Irish 
descent.  Now  resides  at  Portland,  Oregon.  Contributes  to  Poetry,  The 
Liberator,  Contemporary  Verse,  Touchstone,  Art  World,  etc.  Has  writ 
ten  lyrics,  child  rhymes  and  short  stories,  but  prefers  to  write  free  verse. 

JOSEPH  MILLS  HANSON  (Capt.),  vice  president  of  the  Society  of 
Midland  Authors  for  South  Dakota,  resides  at  Yankton,  S.  D.,  where 
he  was  born,  July  20,  1876.  Graduated  St.  John's  Military  School, 
Manlius,  N.  Y.,  1897.  Married  Frances  Lee  Johnson  of  Holden,  Mo.,  in 
1909  (she  died  in  1912).  Served  through  the  Great  War  with  distinction 
and  emerged  with  several  foreign  orders.  Author  Frontier  Ballads  and 
numerous  other  books;  recently,  a  series  of  papers  in  The  Independent 
on  Tlie  Americans  in  the  Great  War. 

BURTON  HASELTINE.  Born  Richland  Center,  Wis.,  1874.  Lived 
in  Ozark  Mountains  two  years.  Graduated  Hahnemann  Medical  Col 
lege  of  Chicago,  1896.  Practiced  medicine  in  Chicago  since  that  time. 
Member  consulting  staff  of  Cook  County  Hospital.  Member  Chicago 
Yacht  Club.  Has  written  chiefly  for  medical  journals  and  societies. 

LE  ROY  HENNESSEY.  Born  February  28,  1882,  at  LaSalle,  111. 
Has  been  a  newspaper  man  since  1905;  now  connected  with  the  Chicago 
American.  Married,  in  1916,  Edith  Sigler  of  Galveston,  Texas.  Was  a 
Jackie  during  the  war  and  won  everlasting  fame  as  the  author  of  Jackie 
Jingles.  Does  not  smoke  nor  drink,  but  occasionally  tries  to  induce 
people  to  buy  Florida  real  estate.  Lives  in  Highland  Park,  111. 

JANIE  SCREVEN  HEYWARD  of  Charleston,  S.  C.,  has  never  been 
a  prolific  writer,  but  has  published  a  small  book  of  verses  in  negro 
dialect.  Is  a  charter  member  of  the  Poetry  Society  of  South  Carolina, 
of  which  her  son,  DuBose  Heyward,  was  one  of  the  organizers. 

HOYT  HOPEWELL  HUDSON.     Born  at  Norfolk,  Nebraska,  1893. 

143 


Graduate  of  the  University  of  Denver;  one  year  at  the  University  of 
Chicago.  Has  taught  in  high  schools  in  several  western  states;  at 
present  is  instructor  in  Public  Speaking  at  Cornell  University.  Mar 
ried. 

HAZEL  COLLISTER  HUTCHISON  was  born  in  Cleveland,  Ohio, 
where  she  now  teaches  school.  Has  contributed  poetry  to  several  maga 
zines  and  plans  to  spend  the  coming  year  in  Paris,  writing  and  studying. 

THOMAS  KENNEDY;  instructor  in  English  at  Carnegie  Institute  of 
Technology,  Pittsburgh,  Pa.  Born  San  Francisco,  Cal.,  September  18, 
1888.  Graduated  from  Wheaton  College  (111.),  1912.  Seven  years  at 
newspaper  work  in  Chicago.  During  the  war,  served  in  aviation  service. 
Co-author  with  three  others  of  Estrays  (poems),  the  first  book  pub 
lished  by  THE  BOOKFELLOWS. 

LILY  A.  LONG.  Lives  in  St.  Paul,  Minn.  Author  Radisson,  the 
Voyageur,  a  verse-drama.  Poems  have  appeared  in  Atlantic,  Harper's, 
Century,  Poetry,  Bellman,  etc.  Review-editor  of  St.  Paul  Pioneer  Press 
two  years.  Has  published  short  stories  in  most  of  the  leading  magazines. 
Is  vice  president  for  Minnnesota  of  the  Society  of  Midland  Authors. 

LUCIA  CLARK  MARKHAM  (Mrs.),  is  a  native  of  Kentucky;  lives 
at  Lexington.  Educated  in  private  schools  and  for  several  years  a 
practicing  physician  in  partnership  with  her  husband.  Has  contributed 
to  the  leading  magazines  and  in  1913  won  a  prize  offered  by  the  London 
Bookman  for  the  best  lyric.  Devotes  all  her  time  to  authorship. 

J.  CORSON  MILLER.  Born  at  Buffalo,  N.  Y.,  November  13,  1883; 
educated  at  Canisius  College.  Has  contributed  verse  and  articles  to 
various  newspapers  and  magazines.  His  first  volume  of  poems,  Veils 
of  Samite,  is  being  issued  by  Small,'  Maynard  &  Co.  He  is  a  member 
of  the  Poetry  Society  of  America.  Engaged  in  the  business  of  electric 
railway  transportation  at  Buffalo. 

FANNY  HODGES  NEWMAN  (Mrs.  H.  P.).  Native  of  Michigan, 
educated  in  Chicago.  Prominent  in  civic  work  in  San  Diego,  Cal.,  where 
her  husband  is  a  leading  physician.  Was  awarded  the  Palms  by  the 
French  Government.  Member  of  the  Poetry  Society  of  America.  Au 
thor  of  Adventures,  Out  of  Bondage,  (poems),  etc. 

JAMES  T.  COTTON  NOE  was  born  in  Washington  county,  Kentucky. 
Went  to  college  at  Franklin,  Ind. ;  graduate  work  at  Cornell  University, 

144 


Practiced  law  for  a  while,  then  took  to  teaching.  For  fifteen  years 
he  has  been  on  the  staff  of  the  University  of  Kentucky  at  Lexington, 
the  last  nine  years  as  head  of  the  Department  of  Education.  Is  editor 
of  the  Kentucky  High  School  Quarterly. 

FRANCIS  FIELDING-REID  of  Baltimore,  Maryland,  was  born  at 
Baltimore,  April  15,  1892;  educated  at  Princeton  University  and  Cam 
bridge  (Magdalene  College);  A.B.  degree;  winner  of  Newton  Essay 
prize;  married  Miss  Marie  M.  Svendsen  of  Norway  in  1917.  Was  a 
captain  in  U.  S.  Field  Artillery  during  the  recent  war,  resigning  in  1919. 
Writer  of  verse,  essays  and  plays. 

AMEEN  RIHANI.  Born  on  Mount  Lebanon,  Syria;  now  a  resident 
of  New  York  City.  Member  of  Authors'  Club,  Poetry  Society  of 
America,  etc.  Came  to  this  country  in  1889,  has  since  spent  several  years 
in  Syria  and  has  written  a  number  of  books  both  in  Arabic  and  English. 
A  Cliant  of  Mystics  and  Other  Poems,  and  The  Path  of  Vision  (essays) 
were  published  in  1921.  Is  married  to  Bertha,  an  artist.  Contributes 
regularly  to  The  International  Studio,  The  Print  Connoisseur,  The  At 
lantic,  The  Forum,  Harper's,  and  other  periodicals. 

ROBERT  J.  ROE  of  Cave  Creek,  Maricopa  county,  Arizona,  was  born 
in  New  York  City  in  1895.  Was  with  the  Fifth  New  Jersey  Infantry 
on  the  Mexican  border,  has  made  a  trip  to  New  Zealand  and  return  in  a 
four-masted  schooner,  and  has  tried  several  occupations,  including 
journalism;  at  present  is  homesteading  a  quarter  section  in  the  desert. 
Is  a  frequent  contributor  of  prose  and  poetry  to  magazines;  confesses 
to  a  leaning  towards  so-called  * '  new ' '  forms. 

JOSEPH  SCHRANK  was  born  in  New  York  City  where  he  still  re 
sides. 

JOHAN  J.  SMERTENKO  is  a  member  of  the  faculty  of  Grinnell 
College,  Grinnell,  Iowa,  and  managing  editor  of  The  Grinnell  Review. 

LAURA  BELL  SMITH  is  the  pen  name  of  a  BOOKFELLOW.  Of  her  two 
contributions,  "Forsan  et  Haec"  appeared  in  The  Independent  in  1911. 

VINCENT  STARRETT.  Born  Toronto,  Ontario,  Canada,  1886.  Ed 
ucated  public  schools,  Toronto  and  Chicago.  Engaged  in  newspaper  work 
in  Chicago  for  twelve  years.  Chicago  Daily  News  correspondent  in  Mex 
ico,  1914-15.  Author  of  Arthur  Maclien,  1918,  and  Ambrose  Bierce, 

145 


1920.     Edited  In  Praise  of  Stevenson  for  BOOKFELLOWS  in  1919.     Lives 
in  Chicago. 

GEOEGE  STERLING.  Born  Sag  Harbor,  N.  Y.,  December  1,  1869, 
Educated  in  Maryland.  Has  resided  in  California  since  1898. 
Author  of  The  Wine  of  Wizardry  and  other  books  of  poems  and  poetic 
dramas.  Member  of  the  Bohemian  Club  of  San  Francisco. 

IVAN  SWIFT.  Born  Wayne  county,  Michigan,  June  24,  1873.  Be 
gan  writing  verse  at  age  of  14.  Educated  public  schools  Michigan  and 
Art  Institute,  Chicago.  Painted  landscapes  for  a  living.  Member 
Poetry  Society  of  America  on  invitation  of  Edwin  Markhara.  Author 
Fagots  of  Cedar,  1907,  and  Blue  Crane  and  Shore  Songs,  1918.  Lives 
Harbor  Springs  and  Detroit,  Mich. 

EUFINA  C.  TOMPKINS  (Mrs.).  Has  been  engaged  in  newspaper 
and  editorial  work  in  Detroit,  Toledo,  San  Francisco,  and  (at  present) 
Los  Angeles. 

ALBEET  EDMUND  TEOMBLY.  Born  in  Massachusetts,  now  re 
sides  at  Austin,  Texas.  Is  on  the  faculty  of  the  University  of  Texas, 
contributes  poetry  to  the  leading  magazines  and  has  written  a  mono 
graph  on  Eosetti. 

OSCAE  WILLIAMS.  Born  December  29,  1899,  in  a  little  town  near 
Odessa,  Eussia.  Migrated  with  parents  to  America  in  1909,  and  started 
to  scribble  verse  in  1913.  Lived  in  New  York  City  until  recently;  then 
in  Maine;  now  in  Chicago.  Poems  have  appeared  in  Midland,  Forum, 
Smart  Set,  Nation,  Freeman,  Contemporary  Verse,  etc.  Author  of  The 
Golden  Darkness  (Yale  University  Press)  and  In  Gossamer  Grey  (BOOK- 
FELLOWS). 


146 


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 

For  permission  to  reproduce  certain  of  the  poems  in  this  volume, 
grateful  acknowledgements  are  extended,  as  follows: 

To  Poetry  (Chicago)  for  Mrs.  Frank's  "Elf -child"  and  "Sleep,  the 
Mother;  "  for  Miss  Long's  "The  Singing  Place,"  and  for  Mr.  Williams' 
"Kevenge"  and  "Mood." 

To  The  Nation  for  Mr.  Gessler's  "Free  Eussia,"  and  Mr.  Smerten- 
ko's  "Hunter's  Monotone." 

To  Contemporary  Verse  for  Mr.  Eoe's  "Lassitude"  and  "Immortal 
ity;"  for  Mrs.  Garnett's  "The  Captive,"  and  for  Mrs.  Hey  ward's 
"Daffodils." 

To  The  Outlook  for  Mrs.  Garnett's  "Ivory  Thumbs,"  and  Mr.  Swift's 
"Peasant's  Prayer." 

To  Smith's  Magazine  for  Miss  Hutchison's  "We  Who  May  Never 
Be." 

To  Shadowland  for  Miss  Earle's  "The  Hush." 

To  The  New  York  Times  for  Mr.  Miller 's  ' '  Epicedium. ' ' 

To  Scribner's  Magazine  for  Mr.  Hanson's  "Panama"  (Copyright, 
1915,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons). 

To  Harper's  Magazine  for  Miss  Long's  "The  Diver"  (Copyright, 
May,  1906,  by  Harper  &  Brothers). 

To  The  Freeman  for  Mr.  Starrett's  "Shakespeare,"  "Falstaff," 
"Dumas,"  and  "Pickwick." 

To  The  Smart  Set  for  Mr.  Starrett's  "At  the  Curb." 

To  All's  Well  for  Mr.  Starrett's  "Return,"  and  "House." 

To  James  T.  White  $  Co.  for  Mr.  Swift's  "Peasant's  Prayer,"  and 
"Association;"  and  for  Mr.  Rihani's  "To  the  Sonnet,"  "The  Song  of 
Siva,"  and  "Andalusia." 

To  The  Independent  for  Miss  Smith's  "Forsan  et  Haec,"  and  Mr. 
Swift's  "Association." 

147 


To  The  Newspaper  Enterprise  Association  for  Mr.  Cooke's  "Remem 
bering"  and  "Born  Without  a  Chance"   (Copyright,  1920). 
To  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  Mrs.  Tompkins'  "Question." 
To  The  Pagan  for  Mr.  Williams'  "Illusion,"  and  Miss  Hammond's 
"Dust  to  Dust." 

To  Town  and  Country  for  Miss  Hammond's  "Interloper." 
To  The  Liberator  for  Miss  Hammond's  "Defeat." 
To  The  Spectator  of  Portland,  Oregon,  for  Miss  Hammond's  "Patch 
work." 


148 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


so 

17JanWPt 


3'64  -4  p 


ibHAHy  USE  ONLY 

MAR  0  3  1995 

CIRCULATION  DEPT 


MAR  0  <*  1395 
CiRCULAHGivi  Di 


PT. 


LD  21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


UC   BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


